Things We Lost In The Fire
by jcw124
Summary: Sam confides in Jessica the truth about his difficult past. The rest is history. Chapter 14 recently added!
1. Things We Lost In The Beginning

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters! The words from Twist and Shout belong to its respective author! **

Sam tells Jess the truth one day.

She appears to sense his distress as soon as he's through the door, like she always does. Cautiously, she snakes her arms around his neck and chews her bottom lip softly. "You okay?" She mouths to him, her thumb rubbing soothing circles into the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he stutters, feigning nonchalance. Jess knows he's full of shit. He watches a crease surface between her bold dark eyebrows and her large blue eyes narrow into slits.

"Park it, Winchester," she demands, steering him into a chair in the kitchen. Thick summer heat permeates the night air coming through the window, and a thin sheen of sweat settles over Jess's collarbone and back. "What's going on with you?"

"I need to tell you something." Sam says quietly, jiggling his knee at a rapid pace. He averts his eyes from her steady, worried gaze.

She crosses her arms and pouts. "You've come to the sudden realization that you're gay?"

His head snaps up in both confusion and amusement. "No, Jessica."

"Alright, spill it."

"It's-it's about my family." It comes out flustered and almost inaudible, but he starts talking and does not give her leeway for an interjection. He tells her the truth about his mother's death and what he hid about his childhood upbringing. Lies of growing up in suburban New Jersey unravel slowly before her, and her face changes from thinly veiled confusion to hurt, fleshy and raw and out in the open.

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner, Sam?" Her lip curls.

"Because you'd totally and honestly believe me telling you that I spent my birthdays and Christmases hunting and killing_ monsters? _You'd put me in an asylum as soon as I was finished!" He gets up from the table, jaw twitching and fingertips numbed. A pregnant pause passes between them as their eyes lock.

"Sam, I love you. And I believe you, so don't go about with that asylum crap. It's just...God, I'm so fucking sorry..." she says, raking her hands through the tangles in her curly golden hair. She tries to swallow the lump in her throat to keep herself from crying in front of him, but before she knows it, tears are slipping down her cheeks.

The first thing that jumps into his mind is _Jess is crying and you should go help her why are you standing here you fucking douchebag, _but he's crying too. He cries for his mother, the one who stood before Yellow Eyes to protect her damned baby, the boy king. He cries for his brother, who fought-_fights?-_tooth and nail to protect everyone. He cries for his father, the broken man, the pawn and the rag doll in all of the commotion and agony and heavenly plan. But he also cries for himself as well as Jessica, for making her cry.

"It's okay," he chokes out uselessly, "I left the business and I came here. I met you." He cards his too-long fingers through the hair on her head. She smiles thickly, small hiccups forcing their way out of her throat. He rocks her for a long time, their heartbeats correlating through long, calming breaths. She watches the numbers on the stove's digital clock change.

"Whatever you need..." Jess whispers into his warm, firm skin.

Sam's head bobs, and his grip tightens on the hem of her t-shirt. "I know."

Their ensuing sex is as endearing as it is gentle. They don't talk, maybe because they don't have anything to say. She falls asleep first, and he doesn't at all, because all he's willing to hear and see is the rise and fall of her bare chest. When the sun arcs over the horizon and the birds start to sound, he's almost surprised to feel her presence next to him, although they've been sleeping together for seven months.

Sam watches her sleep for a couple of minutes, despite the niggling feeling of creepiness it transpires in his heart. Her heavy eyelashes cast shadows along the contours of her cheeks, and he brushes flyaways of yellow curls from her freckled forehead. Remnants of makeup from the last night makes her look like a half-finished work of art. Beautiful, but not quite. Sam likes to think it's things like this that make her so appealing.

Jessica opens her eyes as he's clumsily braiding her hair, something he saw in a Hallmark movie but still couldn't quite grasp.

"Sam," she murmurs, "was last night a dream? Do you really hunt monsters?"

"Oh, cut the crap," he whispers into her ear. She perceives the smile in his voice and draws the covers closer to her body.

"Fine. But we have a Halloween party to go to tonight, Lisa's invited us. Grow a pair and come?" She says, flicking her hair off of her shoulder and tugging him near, until she's laying in the crook of his muscled arm.

"You know how I feel about Halloween." He scolds softly, kissing her temple and angling himself on top of her. One hand against each shoulder and he's pinning her down, brushing his lips against her neck and clavicle. She curls her fingers around his skinny wrist and studies his pointed nose and pretty face.

"Now I do," she insists with a reproachful look. "But please, live a little, Sam."

He agrees to live a little if she agrees to wear that sultry nurse costume with the thigh-highs and the skirt that's too small.

"Fine!" She huffs, banging on his chest. The curling iron is on in minutes, and she drops the blanket around herself as she walks to the bathroom. Sam stares at the sliver of light flickering along the floor, only fractured when Jess's shadow flits through it.

They talk amid her rendition of "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard, and it painfully reminds him of Dean.

Sam hasn't seen him since Omaha, where he boarded the Greyhound to Palo Alto. They'd fought over the blaring of Led Zeppelin in the Impala, and Dean had threatened to burn his amulet if he left.

_Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I never fucking win, Dean!_

_No, Sam, you don't. Because life isn't about the fucking win. You better get your head out of your ass real quick, because Dad has some hunts lined up in Texas-_

He'd yelled at Dean to stop the car. With measured fear, Dean pulled over, his fingers arched on the wheel and his lips pursed. He wanted to say something to quell his baby brother, but his lips wouldn't-couldn't- form words.

Sam was in a blinding rage, and he didn't know what he was doing. His body was in an overdrive, screaming at him _no Sam stop what you're doing Sam no no no no no_

The voice in his head seemed to take on his father's, so Sam got out and slammed the door.

_Where you think you're going? _Dean hissed, slamming his fist on the dashboard and rushing after him. Every stride of Sam's was two of Dean's.

_The bus stop. _

Dean would rather die than let him go, but he did let him go. He didn't protect Sam, he didn't fulfill his job, and every day that Sam was gone, voices of self-loathing filled his brain like water pooling into a fucking lake.

It wasn't very far, Sam thought as he walked. At least that's what he told himself.

But here he is, two years later, with a girl on his arm and a 3.9 GPA. He wonders if Dad and Dean forgot about him. Hell, he wonders if Dad and Dean even tell anybody there is a third member of the Winchester clan, an estranged one.

_Yeah, he decided to leave us for a normal life at Stanford U. Oh, ho, ho!_

Anybody else would be proud that he busted his ass to receive a full ride to his dream college.

Anybody else would tack the letter to the fridge, call the family, and give him a clap on the back. Maybe even a celebratory dinner.

Anybody else would accompany him to campus, unpack his belongings.

Yet, his family isn't anybody else. His family is his father, his brother, and him. Everyone else was dead or gone.

As his eyes sweep Jess's body in the bathroom mirror, he thinks about the ring at the bottom of his backpack, the only thing he'd brought to Stanford.

Sam had purchased the ring a week and a half ago. He didn't know what mysterious force had drawn him to it. Perhaps it was its simplicity; just a small silver band with tiny crystals embedded in it like new fallen snow. That night, he'd come home to her with a toothy grin plastered on his face, like a kid on Halloween.

Yet, he was treading on foreign waters when it came to things like this. He didn't know how to propose to her or what he would say. He thought about not saying anything and letting her find it on her own, but then figured it was too cliche, even for him.

"Alright, Big Guy." she purrs, pulling on her thigh-highs slowly. "You getting ready or not?"

"I'm not wearing a costume."

"Oh, so not fair! Yes you are!" Her high heels make a _click click click _as she walks, like one of their professors.

He smiles down at her and intertwines his fingers with hers. Although everything about her is tall and willowy, her hands are small, like cold baby birds in his palms. Quietly, he quips, "Then I guess I'll go as Sam Winchester, professionally broke college student."

"You do that." She groans, slathering on shiny red lipstick and planting a kiss on his cheek, rough from sleep and shaving.

The party is alive with sex, drugs, and alcohol, which they don't care for much. Sam nurses some tequila shots and a beer afterwards; she grabs a margarita on the rocks, with salt. They bob for apples until she's clutching her sides with laughter and he's red in the face. A pinata in the shape of a jack-o'-lantern hangs from a light fixture, and Sam is the one to crack it open, just like he did to a banshee when he was eleven.

Candy rains from the cracks, and for once Sam is having real fun on Halloween. He's buzzing on some sort of euphoric high, and tilts his head back when he laughs. Jess toys with his hair and kisses him with eager tongue, and his hands tighten on the exposed small of her back. Their foreheads press together, and he opens his mouth to say something.

"Would you look at that-beauty and the beast!" crows a voice high above the thrumming of the crowd. Jess parts from Sam, her eyes bright and smile wide with pleasure.

"Brady!"

Sam had liked Brady once. He'd been the first friend he made as a freshman, when they still frequented the library together and seldom attended parties on a grand scale such as this one. But somehow, his friend had changed, and it had been subtle at first; little quirks in the way he talked or walked. Eventually, it was drugs and making moves on Jessica, and Sam wanted to kill him, but somehow he found it in him not to.

"Yeah, Brady..." He says gruffly.

Brady laughs and gives Jess a taut kiss on the cheek. "Hey, Samantha. Jess. How's the party going for you?"

"Well, thanks." Jessica chirps, swirling her drink loosely between her fingers. "You look good!"

"Do I?" It's a Dracula costume from the ninety-nine cents store, but it's more appropriate than Sam's casual attire. "God, it's like I haven't seen you two in months!"

"You haven't." Sam retorts dryly, twisting open another beer and leaning against the bar. There's a sharp jab to his ribs delivered by Jessica, but he calmly ignores it and stares down the neck of the bottle.

Brady bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, his gaze sliding from him to Jess. "We should get together sometime, us three. Haven't done that since freshman year." Sam scrutinizes the specks of fake blood on his white dress shirt and cape, his mouth a straight line.

"Totally!" Jess squeals, scrabbling for a foothold in the conversation. She shoots Sam a warning look, crossing her arms over her ample chest. He hums in agreement, and Brady hastily abandons the two, mumbling about whiskey of something or other.

Sam lifts his head and blearily watches him go. Abruptly, something in the pit of his stomach lurches. It's a fight or flight response, something he hasn't had since he was twelve or thirteen. The sensation has always warned him of something bad. A single name floats through his head, _Brady Brady Brady Brady,_ but he feels like ignoring it, so he does.

When they get home that night, he's unsure if the stirring in his gut is the alcohol talking or his actual conscience.

_Brady Brady Brady Brady_

He's feverish as she slips into her nightclothes, the t-shirt with the Smurfs on it and the boy shorts. He can't shake the name, and he isn't sure if he should tell her or not.

She brushes her curls out and hums some songs from _In Utero. _Nirvana, 1993.

"Jess," he chokes, mangled and thoughtful.

"Hm?" She asks, whirling around and taking off her pearl earrings. They're her mom's, but they look better on her.

"Brady...you should stay away from him."

"Oh, Sam." She says that like she always does. _Oh, Sam._ As if she's exasperated. Like she hates him.

"I'm serious."

"Why?" _Oh, Sam._

"He just...he's weird now. He does coke and all that shit."

She gives him a funny little sigh and sits beside him on the bed. "I'd never."

"Will you at least listen to me, though?" He presses gently, rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand.

"I-I guess." She licks her lips and runs her tongue over her even white teeth, knocks her knees and ankles together. "I guess so."

She falls asleep almost instantly, but he is sleepless.

When he hears the clanging and commotion down the stairs, he is almost paralyzed when he sees Dean, in all his glory and Dad's leather jacket.

"Hiya, little brother." His voice is deeper, and his arms bulge a bit through the sleeves of his tee. Tawny hair sticks up in all directions, just like when he was younger. His heart aches as he realizes how much he's fucking missed having Dean around all the time.

Jess follows him down with a tentative "Sam?", and Dean doesn't fail to make a comment on her breasts. She admonishes him with a single look.

"Dad's on a hunting trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

"Your dad," injects Jess, "where has he gone?"

Both of the men are caught off guard, and Dean digs his hands further into the pockets of his worn blue jeans.

"We're not really sure. You mind if I borrow Sam for a few days to help look for him?"

His cheeks are hot with embarrassment and annoyance. "Dean, I have a law school interview on Monday. And I can't just leave Jess-she's my girlfriend!" He throws his hands in the air, and Dean scoffs loudly.

"God, I never realized you were such a friggin' girl, Sam. I'll have you back before Monday, and Jess can take care of herself. Can't you, Blondie?"

Jess clears her throat and blows hot air out of the side of her mouth. "Gladly."

"So, think you can throw together something cool and jump in the Impala?" suggests Dean with a smug smile to his brother.

"Fine." muses Sam.

Only a few days.

Back before Monday.

**A/N: Read and review please! I'd love to hear your opinions/any kind of feedback :)**


	2. Things We Couldn't Comprehend

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters!**

Back before Monday.

That's his mantra. He treats it like a hunt. They're on a hunt, tracking something they don't really know much about. He's playing pretend, that's all. He and Dean had done it countless times in the Impala.

Some moments during the night Sam isn't sure he even wants to find his father. All those years planning to leave him and he's forced to reunite, having to feign a smile in the eyes of the man who beat him and his brother when he was a little drunk.

It had been down to a science when Sam turned seventeen, and he hated it. But he never brought it up, like good little boys do.

Jess watches them leave and their car turn into a black spot on the stretching road. She smiles, even waves a little. The house is empty without Sam, something she hasn't quite understood yet.

She opens the book on supernatural lore, and her eyes scan the page of exotic words.

Pentagram. Black-eyed demon. Servant of Hell. Exorcism.

She brushes the words of the demon exorcism with the tip of her finger, her eyes calculating.

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus  
omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio  
infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,  
omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.  
Ergo draco maledicte_  
_et omnis legio diabolica  
adjuramus te.  
Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,  
eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare_

Sam would never want to drag her into this, and she understands why. But he was forced into it for a reason. Things like demons, werewolves, and vampires exist, and they aren't just bedtime stories to her anymore. If she has to learn how to protect herself from this shit, then so be it.

Jess memorizes an exorcism like it's law terminology. She took Latin in high school, something she found terribly useless then.

As she looks up legends on her dinky laptop, she starts to have doubts.

If she were to say such things, who's to say it will work? Who's to say it won't? Her nerves begin to fray as words blur and jump off of the page. Anxiously, she contemplates calling Sam. She could practically hear his reaction to her questions and fears.

_You-you what? A lore book? Exorcisms and summoning spells-Jessica!_

She visualizes the twitch of his jaw with the clenching of his teeth, and the tightening of his fists on the kitchen counter. He'd be disappointed, looking at her with crestfallen hazel eyes.

_Just...why?_

Jess doesn't go to bed out of fear that something is watching her.

It's a prickling feeling that surfaces at the nape of her neck, engulfing it in gooseflesh. She locks the doors and draws the blinds on the windows, turns up the air conditioning a notch or two. Anything to distract her.

To surprise Sam, she decides to bake cookies at 4:12 in the morning. Batter makes its way to her mouth more than once.

She puts them in the oven, her ponytail bouncing high above her head. The phone rings, and she strains to listen to the caller ID.

_Brady Brady Brady_

"Hello?" She says quietly. 4:29 in the morning.

"J-Jessica," Brady chokes out, throaty and wet. He's making small whining noises in the back of his throat, and it immediately heightens her alarm by twofold.

"Brady! Brady, are you okay?!" She taps her fingernails rapidly against the table.

"I need help." His voice is low and breathy. "There's something wrong with me." He feels something come up his esophagus, but it isn't bile. It's black smoke, leaking out of him like he's some kind of faulty garden hose. Incredible spasms make his body wrack in agony and immense weakness.

"Where are you?!"

He feels himself being pulled deep into unconsciousness again, and there's a clicking sound on his end of the line. "I'll come to you, Jess." says Brady's voice, clear as day.

She hangs up the phone, an icy chill racing up her spine. She's a bit uneasy on her feet as her mind races. Something is telling her to run before he gets here. Run from the house, run from Stanford. But that would ultimately result in running from Sam.

Jess's heart hammers in her chest as she hastily throws things into her backpack. The rapping of knuckles on the door makes her entire body go numb and dumbstruck with fear.

"Jessica?"

She warily opens the door, her eyes sweeping over Brady's tall frame. There are dark brown spots on his wrists and neck, concealed by a white button-up shirt paired with an ill-fitting suitjacket.

"...What's wrong?"

"I was bleeding. But, I'm okay now. Just wanted to see you." The slow smile that tugs up the corners of his lips is toxic. She scans him frantically for a weapon, hidden or not.

She is speechless as he advances on her. His fingers are curled close to his body, like he's shy; on the contrary, threatening brown eyes linger on her face, as if he's trying to figure out how to paint or sculpt it. Her first thought is to scream for Sam, as terrifying as it is that he's miles away. So she just prays for him, wherever he is. Prays that he'll be okay if Brady decides to jump off the deep end right now and kill her right where she's standing.

In the split second that he grabs her, Jessica twists and screams, grabbing fistfuls of muscled flesh and rippled clothing.

"Let go of me, you bastard!" She screams, connecting her feet with his thighs. With a grunt, he rams her head into a chair nearby. Time freezes as a popping sound flashes in her brain, and she feels as if she's underwater, hitting the ground with a soft thump. There is the minute clicking sound she heard once before. As she scratches the tile for a grip, Brady kneels to her level. He looks like the Joker.

A small gasp escapes from her mouth as Jess sees his eyes are black pools. It's the only way she could describe it- an obscene and frightening coal.

"I'm running the show..." says Brady, sickly-sweet. He extracts a kitchen knife from it's perch in the wooden block and races his finger down the blade. A stream of blood trickles down his pale skin, and he laughs sickeningly. The laughs fade into a wet cough, and she realizes.

It's a demon, and it's been there for years.

And it's killing him. The Brady inside.

"Oh, Jessica. So naive. Yet so, so beautiful. Especially with that pretty blonde hair." He twirls a piece of it around his finger, entranced. He blows hot, stale breath in her face, grinning smugly.

In a fit of rage, she grabs his wrist and twists, throwing her body weight against him and into the cabinets. He drops the knife, snickering to himself as she snatches it and plunges it into his stomach. His arms spread like Jesus Christ himself.

"Can't kill me that way, sweetheart. It's just not allowed." He extends a hand and claps as she is slammed into the sink, her tailbone smacking into its curve with a horrible noise.

He unveils the knife from his gut, amused at the thin coat of red by its tip.

"You know why I chose you, Jessica?!" He yells deliriously, digging the point of the knife into her cheek. It stung, but it didn't necessarily hurt, which made her think about how delirious she really was.

He answers his own question. "I really wanted to get to Sam Winchester."

She flinches at the name and yelps helplessly as Brady effortlessly tosses her into a wall. Searing hot pain ripples throughout every nerve, and she clenches her jaw to suppress agonizing screams.

"Little Sammy...yeah, he's special alright. Too special for an egotistical bitch like yourself." He cocks his head to the side, his eyes flashing black once more.

Jess's head throbs loudly in her skull; she fights the urge to sink into unconsciousness. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, and matted blonde hairs stick to an ensanguined gash on her temple. She feels as if she's being carried somewhere, but refuses to make eye contact with the demon. Fuck, she has no energy to even turn her head.

Jess is thrown into a tangled heap on the floor. She recognizes their bedroom immediately from the photograph of Sam's parents on the dresser.

"Got a nice surprise for you," Brady's deep voice utters. He kicks her lightly in the abdomen, met with a bloody gurgle.

She's tacked to the wall, hanging like a painting.

She blinks her eyes open as she watches her feet leave the floor. Lifted from the ground, like a Disneyland ride. She always thought she'd be able to go with Sam. But he was fit to go alone.

Awakening from her trance, she half-remembers the demon exorcism and begins to recite it. Although it's very low, the demon appears to be irritated by it's song. With a birdlike turn to his head, Brady's eyes rest on her, transfixed.

"What was that?" He demands, grabbing her chin and forcing her mouth closed. The most she can do is howl and mewl like an impotent animal.

She wants to let it go.

But something in her fights. Something in her chest bursts with new emotion, and it tells her to fight with an overzealous energy.

Perhaps it's her life flashing before her eyes, snippets of Sam planting a kiss on her cheek and laughing, his dimples engraved in his cheeks like chiseled stone. Her mother and father kiss her goodnight, the glow of the night light illuminating the space behind them. Then, she's sprawled out in the too-hot family station wagon, crammed between her brother and her sister as they sang classic rock from the radio.

_I'm on the highway to Hell..._

Hell yeah, she is.

Jess bites Brady's hand, and a startled cry echoes from him. She enunciates every word of the exorcism, her throat constricted and dry.

With a flare of his nostrils, Brady takes out a switchblade from the pocket of his suit and shaves a raw line into her midsection. The tenderness underneath her skin explodes in throes of aching, itching pain. A guttural noise escapes from foreign lips. As she struggles to withhold wracking nausea, she realizes it is her, weeping like a mute barbarian.

"This'll teach you to know your place, Jessica." He opens his mouth to speak more, but his body is harrowed with extreme convulsions. She cannot bear to watch as he drops to his knees, black smog expelling from his mouth in quick succession. It disappears into a wall vent, never to be seen again.

She is dropped onto the mattress instantaneously. It's the last thing she remembers.

**A/N: Opinions? I'd love to hear from you guys! BTW, tell your friends about this fic if they're fans, too! **


	3. Things We Recover From

Sam despises hospitals because they smell of antiseptic and taste like bitter cold.

He stares at Jessica, remorse consuming his brain. If he hadn't left, she'd still be okay. She wouldn't look so broken and mute.

He can't bear to let go of her small hand with its cold fingers. Although he smiles as they curl around his, blame pangs through his heart and takes the grin away.

Sam was glad she couldn't see him like this, guilt written all over his face and rearing its ugly head. The scene of discovery keeps replaying in his mind, and it nags at him.

Dean and Sam had stumbled into the bedroom. There was Jessica, who was alive, and there was Brady, who was not.

He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Brady was in the same room as Jessica, decorated with a substantial puncture wound to the gut. Jess was a mangled, beautiful mess of purple bruises blooming morosely over her tanned California skin, eyes ringed with red and a thin line slashed across her abdomen.

Dean had promised to get rid of Brady's body as long as Sam helped Jessica to a hospital. That was six hours ago.

His nerves were frayed and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. But, Jess was okay, and that was all that mattered to him.

She opens her eyes on a Thursday.

It was sunny.

Late afternoon.

Beautiful California weather.

Sam is in the lobby, eating and sleeping and doing things he hasn't done in days. Dean has taken vigil by her bedside. Although he doesn't understand her very well, he knows a great woman when he sees one. She is one of them.

He sees it in the way his little brother brushes her hair from her broken face. His long fingers linger in the ripples of golden blonde, which catch the setting sun perfectly. He hears it in the way Sam's voice cracks when he describes her. Picks it up in his laugh.

She makes a small noise as he shifts in his chair. His throat bobs as he gapes at her, stirring and yawning in the bed.

"Dean," she says quietly, running her tongue over her lips. He nods slowly.

"M'brother's downstairs. Glad you're awake, Jessica." He allows a tight smile and holds one of her fingers in the palm of his hand. "You gave us quite the scare, don't you think?"

"...It was a demon." She responds without missing a beat. A strange sigh wheezes through his mouth.

"What? You sure?" He asks tersely, his brow furrowing.

"Demons have black eyes." Jessica leans her head back onto the pillow, her eyes trained towards the doorway.

"...Yes, they do." Dean says softly. "Let me guess. It possessed your friend, the one in the suit."

She flinches at the word "friend" and nods tentatively, blinking her huge eyes in his direction.

"I'm sorry. This life...lots aren't cut out for it."

She crosses her arms over her chest and swallows. Her face is gentle, he notices, but her eyes are steely. "Well, I'll try to be. For Sam." Her voice quivers; she wants to cry, but she refuses to show such colossal weakness in the midst of Sam's older brother. Notwithstanding, the fear of death still hangs over her like a wedding veil. She's paranoid of those black eyes watching her every move and hunting Sam down.

If they ever hurt him because she hadn't given warning, she'd never forgive herself as long as she'd live.

"And Dean?" She adds, her fingers tightening against his calloused hands. "He...he wanted Sam. The demon wanted to k-kill me to get to Sam." The truth spills out of her in jagged pieces. She makes a little hiccuping noise like she's going to vomit, but squashes it down and stares at him, waiting for any reaction.

Dean's mouth is a straight line. His face is blank, voice level."Did they say why?"

"He's special, that's all."

"Fuck. Fuck...okay. Thanks, Jessica." He stands up and brushes his clammy palms off of his jeans. The edges of his vision blur as if he's going blind. Images of a broken, bleeding Sam run through his brain, taunting him.

Dean breathlessly assures Jess that he'll resolve the situation somehow and bring Sam up to her. He finds the kid sprawled onto a cafeteria chair, his head tilted back and eyelashes fluttering. A round of applause brings Sam to his senses, wrinkling his nose and dragging a hand over his tired face.

"Hey...she alright?" He murmurs, blinking the last remnants of sleep from his eyes and giving him a tight smile.

"She's awake, Sammy. Shaken, of course...but she's up and at 'em."

Sam smiles soundlessly, his eyes wide in astonishment. He's newly adrenalized, a tingly feeling in his stomach telling him how much he missed seeing such a pretty face.

The brothers walk to her hospital room, where she and a nurse are talking quietly.

"-and be sure to rest, honey," advises the young woman with warmth, and exits with a long glance at Dean.

Sam expels a heart laugh and draws Jessica into his arms as much as he can, breathing in her signature scent of vanilla and strawberry shampoo. He buries his face into her hair and screws his eyes shut, letting himself smile.

_God, she's beautiful, so damn beautiful_

He presses kisses into her hair and forehead.

She snickers, curling her thin fingers through his thick dark hair. "I love you, Sam," she whispers, blinking up at him.

"I love you, too." He says slowly, his eyes resting on her lips. He draws his tongue over his own, contemplating her injuries. It's hard to look at, the stitches under her hair and the purple splotches casting a hard contrast against the stark whiteness of her body, but he doesn't acknowledge it much. He sits on the edge of the bed, lacing his fingers through hers and running his thumb repetitively against her palm.

"So, when is your next trip?" She quips with a wan smile.

"I'm not going anywhere." Sam insists. Dean's head snaps up, a darkness brewing behind his eyes.

"Sam." He mutters, tenting his fingers under his chin. "We're going to find Dad. You and me. Even if that means bringing Jessica, we're finding Dad." Their eyes lock in a deathly stalemate. Sam denies this with a subtle shake of the head.

When they're out of Jessica's earshot, Sam raises his eyebrows at his brother's words. "I can't leave her alone or drag her around in the state she's in, Dean. She's hurt, and nervous..." He thinks of her anxious hands, wringing tenderly under the sheets. She'd clung to him, her eyes stinging with hot, desperate, anguished tears. Fisted his shirt even, like a little girl.

"When she heals, then." Dean offers in exasperation, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He'd taken a liking to her, frankly; she was intelligent, and even if she refused to show it, he sensed that she could be sensitive when she wanted to be.

"Would she even want to do this, Dean?" Sam mumbles. Never had he wanted her to get involved with such a dark part of the world; a sect where monsters and evil were rampant, and reminiscent of Hell on Earth. He was almost shameful that she would forever associate that with him. For so long, he'd maintained the illusion that he was normal. Just distant with family, that's all. It had managed to unravel so quickly, of course. The course of a night and he was known as Sam Winchester, the hunter.

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe she'll follow in your footsteps and bail out on us!" Dean rebukes with a glower. He doesn't regret the words.

"You know what, Dean? You don't always have to be Dad's little toy soldier, running around doing whatever the hell he says!" He yearns to yell every awful thing their father has said to them so his brother could see. At one point, maybe Dad was happy, or optimistic even-that's what Dean said. But somehow along the way, after Sam turned six months old, he became a forbiddingly obsessed hunter. Everyone outside of Dean seemed to look at him and understand.

Dean gapes at his brother like a wounded animal. It quickly evolves into a look of cold stone. "All of my life, I did what Dad said. And all of it was to protect you, Sam. So get off your high horse and grow the fuck up."

He's heard this song and dance before, when he was seventeen.

Their father had found Stanford's acceptance letter in Sam's jacket, and promptly given him a nice backhand for his betrayal of the family business.

_Grow the fuck up, Sam! You think you can enjoy a friggin' college? You're part of a business here, you ingrate!_

He'd cried for the first time in forever that night. Neither Dad nor Dean had heard, and his brother hadn't asked how he felt about his father's rejection. And that was how he liked it.

_If you're going to leave, don't come back._

_Don't_

_come_

_back_

He could easily have refused hunting with his brother and hurried back to the comfort of an apple pie, Joe College kind of life, but he didn't. The words come out of his mouth like an accident.

"Fine. We'll find Dad. You, me, and Jess."

The interview on Monday appears to go out the window, as well as the 174 he received on his LSAT.

And he couldn't give a damn.

**A/N: Here's the third chapter! All reads and reviews are love! A big thank you to the eight users who have followed this story and the six reviewers!**


	4. Things We Want To Do

Jessica is released from the hospital on a Saturday night, with a wrist brace and a balloon from Sam and Dean.

She's quieter than usual. In Sam's opinion, she's just reflecting on her newfound freedom.

"She okay back there?" Dean inquires gruffly, his fingertips tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel of the Impala. He catches a glimpse of her and Sam in the backseat through his rearview mirror. She's enveloped in a thick purple blanket, her knees brought up to her chest. Sam alternates an owlish gaze between her and his brother.

"Yeah, I think so." He says dumbly, kissing the top of her head. "Look, all I need is some stuff from the apartment and we can go. You pick up any leads on Dad's disappearance?"

Dean smirks matter-of-factly. "I have, little brother. Got a voicemail from him, sounded fishy-turns out there's some EVP on it. Guy's been looking into a string of disappearances in Jericho, California." He is embarrassingly proud, and turns on a Black Sabbath album, low volume. _Never Say Die!, _1978.

Sam wrinkles his brow, slightly offset. "That doesn't sound like anything Dad can't handle. So why'd he drop off the radar?" He cranes his neck to see the apartment building in his binocular vision. It never occurred to him how strange it looked bathed in chilled moonlight.

With a subtle nudge to her forearm, Jessica blinks her eyes open. The car is unseasonably frigid, and wind whips through the sparse trees outside the window. At the sight of the apartment, she recoils, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Sam...what're we doing here?" she breathes, her eyes flickering from him to the door.

He clasps her hands in his, smiling gently. "I need to get some stuff. We'll be out of here in a second-then we leave to find my dad." Sensing her tense at his words, he gives her a benevolent kiss. "I'm not leaving you here alone, Jess."

Jessica nods cooperatively and stands motionless outside the apartment. A thin line of powder just outside the doorway catches her eye. She kneels to thumb the fine particles, and is perturbed by the fact that it is salt.

Dean comes up the stairwell as she brushes her hands off of her jeans. "Jessica...you look freaked." He remarks, pushing the door open.

"Salt. By the doorway." She says quietly, nudging it with her foot. It isn't the strangest thing she's witnessed in the apartment, but she's positive it wasn't there before.

He nods understandingly. "Salt wards off demons." It rolls off his tongue in an almost blasé manner. "Now, you sure you don't want to come inside?"

"Positive." She brushes her hair behinds her ears and chews on her bottom lip, pensive. The supernatural had given her a bad first impression, but Sam and Dean handled everything associated with it so well. Years of experience had given them a stoic philosophy on the matter. As much as she wanted to support Sam and his peculiar career, consequences swarmed her thoughts.

It was terrifying how easily one of them could die or disappear on the job. Just like that, slipping through her fingers like smoke or mist. That stuck out like a sore thumb, as much as she tried to push it to the back of her mind. And if they killed one being, what's to say there isn't more, this time coming with a vengeance?

She wipes her sweaty palms on her t-shirt. Never had her mind been so unsound.

Distressed, Jessica paces the length of the hallway. Maybe the demon's attack had set forth what was already a bit unstable.

Every sound gives the impression of being ten times louder. Her heart races in her chest, and she feels her throat constrict as if someone has drawn it in an iron grip.

She wants to scream for Sam in her panic, but doesn't, because she's wary of causing a scene.

_What the hell is happening to me? _

_What is wrong with me?_

_Sam! _she wails into a void. No sound comes out of her mouth, as if the essence of her voice was sucked into a black hole, or stolen away like the Little Mermaid's.

Jess knows her body must cooperate with her mind before Sam and Dean walk through the door. She stands in front of the ornate hallway mirror, with its curving design and cracks in the glass. Dust cakes its crevices.

She takes a hand and presses it against the cool glass. Her reflection does the same.

It takes her a few minutes to fully assess her appearance. It seems whomperjawed, disfigured. So not herself that she would mistake it for another person if she saw her reflection walking down the street.

Jess' fair hair is matted, framing her face in limp tangles, and her deep blue eyes look too big for such delicate features. They are suggestive of exhaustion, weighed down by heavy purple bags. As she goes down the list, she wonders how eight days of hospitalization could do such drastic things to a person. She has seen cancer patients that look much better than she does.

The grooves in the mirror look like defacing cuts to her face. She turns away from it in anguish, and sees Sam in the doorway of the apartment. Soft yellow light floods the space behind him.

"Jess..." He says, his voice trailing off. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Am I going crazy, Sam?" She says, her eyes glued to the floor.

"No," He soothes, gathering her in his arms and kissing the top of her head. His warm hands snake through her tangled hair, and she screws her eyes shut. While she tries to feel something, anything, her mind draws a blank. Even her chest feels void of any emotion whatsoever. She loved Sam with everything she could muster, but nothing surfaced. The stab wound along her abdomen gave a phantom ache; in a rush, she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

She revels in how good Sam smells, like laundry fresh out of the dryer. Unshaven stubble brushes against her forehead. Softly, she laughs; it feels abnormally, crazily wonderful to do it for some reason, and he smiles down at her. "What're you laughing for?"

"I don't really know." She murmurs, kissing his chin and lips and nose. "I love you, you know that Sam Winchester?"

A hot prickle races up Sam's spine. He'll never get used to her saying such great, simple things.

"Yes," He says finally. "I do."

A loud creak sounds from the door. Dean leans against the door frame, an unlit cigarette between his pink lips. "Let's pack it up, Romeo and Juliet."

Jess shakes her head and takes Sam's hand in hers. "Don't be jealous, Dean."

"Not in the least!" He howls into the cool night air, slamming the Impala's trunk shut. He glances down at his reflection in it's obsidian paint and smiles inwardly.

Sam watches the stars glow exceptionally bright against the violet stretch of sky. He grabs a tuft of Dean's leather jacket as he is climbing into the Impala, keys jingling in his right hand.

"Dude, the stars are out tonight. Don't you wanna pop open a beer and stare for a while?"

Jess, filled with a vague curiosity, perches on the hood of the car and crosses her legs. She nestles in the folds of Sam's oversized sweater, dragging her eyes up to the constellations overhead. "Were you two always like this?" She asks lightly.

The brothers nod, passing beers around. "We didn't really have anyone else." adds Sam. Nobody hears it. He isn't sure why he said such a thing himself.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_

It isn't that it's not true- their father left them to fend for themselves endless times. That, or they were bait for the latest monster that prayed on youths.

Sam tries not to think about it.

He catches a tantalizing glimpse of Jessica's bare skin as she yawns, her shirt riding up past her thin waist. She cuffs him flirtatiously behind the ear, batting long eyelashes.

_The stars, look at the stars!_

She points out Orion's belt.

He cannot visualize the stars joining together to form pictures. Maybe he isn't smart enough for her. He knows for sure he isn't the most creative.

She's thrilled nonetheless, excitedly explaining the concepts behind astrological signs and Andromeda and Ursa Major.

While he doesn't understand much, he knows she's content. And if she is happy, so is he.

**A/N: Chapter four! Hope you all enjoy! :) Read and review if you can! Please tell your friends about this fic if they're fans also! The more the merrier!**


	5. Things We Hunt

Dean says that resolving the case will draw them closer to where he and Sam's father is. He also insists that playing Metallica on the highest volume possible will help him with his thinking process.

"This will be easy, Jessica. Spirits always get riled up at some point-mainly 'cause they're dicks-but we get 'em under control." He taps his fingers against the wheel, humming the song's lyrics under his breath. The amulet hanging from his neck glints in the light.

Jess laughs, leaning her head against Sam's chest as it rises and falls. "So, how do you usually go about solving a case?"

"Go to the scene in our fed suits, talk to the vic's family, look around for local legends..." Sam trails off, staring out the window with the world blurring past him. It goes too fast, but he's always liked the wind in his hair and the nipping at the back of his t-shirt.

Jess raises her eyebrows, playing with a lock of his dark hair. "Do you really impersonate the FBI? The most I thought you boys could do is pull a little five finger discount."

"You gotta marry this chick, Sammy. I want to see her stick around!" Dean grins, glancing at his brother and his girlfriend tangled together in the backseat. The unlit cigarette between his white teeth twitches, and he taps it out against the side of the door. The sun is high in the bright blue sky and beats down mercilessly on the car. To Sam's reluctance, even he sings along with the song blaring from the speakers.

_Make his fight on the hill in the early day_  
_Constant chill deep inside_  
_Shouting gun, on they run through the endless grey_  
_On they fight, for the right, yes but who's to say?_

_For whom the bell tolls  
Time marches on  
For whom the bell tolls_

They arrive at Jericho early in the morning, and Dean pulls over for a refill of Baby's gasoline.

"You still running credit card scams?" Sam asks with a shit-eating grin.

Older brother scowls, maneuvering the fuel pump while balancing three Cokes and a package of Twinkies in his arms. "Hunting ain't exactly a pro-ball career, little brother."

Jess emerges from the car and walks its perimeter, her eyes scanning the surface. "You know, Dean, this car-it's in fantastic shape." Her fingers skim along the hood, which she opens seconds later. Her love for cars had gone dormant until now.

"I try," says Dean self-righteously, "but Sammy here doesn't appreciate it much."

"Go to hell!" Sam barks, laughing until his dimples make an appearance.

Dean nods. "I'll try."

The latest victim is Troy Squire, who disappeared from his Ford at 20 years old. The police confirmed nothing at the scene on Sylvania Bridge, but the one clue they did drop was the fact that his girlfriend, Amy Hein, was putting up missing posters around town.

Jess is the first to walk up to her, surveying the petite woman's heavy makeup and pentagram necklace.

"I'm sorry about your boyfriend." She says quietly, taking some tape and helping her paste the posters on the graffitied wall. Amy nods her thanks, but continues working.

"I went to school with Troy...my brothers and I were really worried." She sees Sam and Dean in her peripheral vision, pleading that they would intercept the conversation. By some sort of mystic osmosis, the men stand beside her.

"What Jess failed to mention is that we're Federal Marshals. We don't mean any harm." Sam produces the faux badges from the glove compartment, and Amy's gaze hovers over them for a moment.

"Alright," she confirms, and takes them to a diner at the end of the street. The lighting is dark, and the decrepit leather booths are sparsely peppered with families and the elderly. Dean's aversion to the place is written all over his face, and Jess snickers.

Amy runs her tongue against her teeth and leans forward. "I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. Said he'd call me right back, and...he never did." Her friend, a willowy girl with stringy brown hair, hands them a copy of the flyer.

The conversation drifts to darker things, conspiratorial things. Amy's companion drops her voice to a low drawl.

"Look, there's this legend. Girl got murdered out on Centennial Highway decades ago. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever."

Jess looks at the boys on either side of her. "Thank you for your time." She discloses with a tight smile, and as soon as they leave the joint climbs into the front seat of the Impala.

"The hell are you doing, Jessica?!" snaps Dean as she dangles the keys outside of the cranked-down window.

"Research. You gonna come with?"

Muttering profanities under his breath, Dean sits in the passenger seat. "I hate research and women who know how to get my panties in a twist. Somehow you manage to do both."

"I know," Jess says lightly, hearing the Impala's engine purr to life. "Mind handing me a beer from the backseat while you're at it?"

_Female Murder Hitchhiking_

_Female Murder Centennial Highway_

_Female Suicide Centennial Highway_

There are hits and misses, but Sam is able to retrieve an article on the case.

The spirit is Constance Welch. The premise is that she killed herself in a fit of temporary insanity, immediately following the death of her two children.

Jess scans the article on an adjacent computer. Horrible words scream out at her.

"That's terrible..." She says finally, something tugging at the corners of her eyes. Words fail her for a couple of minutes as she looks at the woman's monochrome photograph. Big brown eyes are accentuated by her ponytailed black hair and full smile.

Her sight flickers over to the picture of the crime scene. A certain structure in the background raises a red flag, and her hand connects with the back of Dean's head. "Boys. The bridge. She killed herself on the bridge."

Sam grins triumphantly and leans back in his chair. "That's my girl."

The nights in Jericho are humid. The distinct smell of sand and gasoline hangs in the air nearly twenty-four hours a day.

The three of them walk the length of the bridge, occasionally peering over the edge at the murky, swirling waters. The waves kick up against the rocks multiple times, spraying a light, salty mist in their faces. No one is sure of what to say in the situation.

"Do you think you're going to find your father soon?" Jess hears herself say.

"Maybe, maybe not. This mean you two are on the bandwagon?" Dean pitches, pressing his lips together in an encouraging smile.

Jess exhales, watching Sam. "I want to do this. If this is going to be his life, I can't just stand there blind to it."

Sam turns on his heel, his face pulled in a bizarre expression. "This isn't going to be my life again. This isn't permanent." One hunt, he'd promised himself. He'd thought about it. The interview on Monday, that was his whole future in a nutshell. He couldn't afford to toss it away; he stood through too much to let such amazing opportunities slip through his fingers.

Dean recoils in disgust. "You have a responsibility to—"

Sam's jaw twitches. If he submits to Dean's every beck and call, the rift between them will only get worse, and he knows it. "To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures... I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back."

Dean's world is frozen for a moment in time. Everything about the aftermath of his mother's death, even memories of her life, bombard him all at once. In a surge of strength he snatches Sam's collar and shoves him against the railing of the bridge with a soft clink. Jess sprints over, her voice carrying across the vicinity.

"Dean! Dean, stop!"

His chest heaves, and his feet feel like they've been pierced with pins and needles. "Don't talk about her like that." He growls, and releases his brother.

The ride to the motel is buzzing with tension. Silence lingers in every nook and cranny, Jess toying with the lapel of Sam's jacket every once in a while. The first morning at the inn, solemnity overpowers hushed tones.

"It's November 2nd." says Sam, running his hand through his hair. The clouds have grouped together in angry grey clusters. When he was little, Sam remembers being told rain was the tears of angels. Now, he's not so sure.

Jess looks at him and sees the dejection in his eyes. She couldn't believe Sam-enigmatic, sensitive Sam- could hide such things from her for so long.

"Oh, Sam..." she whispers into his shoulder, pressing a kiss into his collarbone and the space below his ear. "Baby, you can cry. You can...you can do whatever you need to. You're not a robot."

"Tell that to my father." He says coldly.

"Sam, I'm begging you-"

Dean walks up the hallway of the motel, his face urgent. "Let's get a move on, Zack and Kelly. Found Dad's room."

With an anxious glance, Jessica grips Sam's hand and opens the door to John Winchester's motel room. It doesn't take long to decipher the man's chicken scratch and hurried research; books of all kinds are spread across the moldy carpet, and newspaper clippings are crammed into the edges of the dirty mirror.

After inspecting a note above Constance Welch's clipping, Jessica breathes a yelp of surprise. "She's a woman in white. I know this legend."

"Do you? Well, color me impressed." says Dean casually.

"Just tell me where this woman is buried, Dean."

"Plot behind her house." Sam chimes in.

Dean makes a noise of confirmation and sits on the bed. "Alright, so how about we split up. Fred and Daphne go off to kill Constance, and I try to find Dad's journal."

Sam's expression is one of dismay. "He's glued to that thing. Maybe he's left Jericho." Their father was never a stationary man. Whether it was his time in the Marines or hunting, he was always on the go. When he was little, Sam let it get to him. It's tougher to admit that type of thing nowadays, at a completely self-sufficient twenty-two.

"I'll ring you two when you got a second. Get out of here." Dean gives Sam a stiff handshake, and he feels something being pressed into his palm. The wrapper crinkles, and he refrains from even looking down at his hand until he's in the driver's seat of the car.

"Did your brother just hand you off a condom?" Jess laughs, smacking his forearm. "Does he actually think I'm going to allow fornication while we're supposed to be hunting a ghost?"

"Even in his last dying moments, Dean would call a stripper."

Jess braids a strand of her hair, shaking her head in amusement. "What a dick." She extends her hand to play with the dial of the radio, but it exudes white noise. Before she can make a sound, Constance is on the road in front of them, her characteristic white dress billowing around her like a cloud.

"Sam!" She screams, and he floors it in surprise.

"Take me home." whispers Constance, her voice like ice racing up their spines. Sam whips his head around to see her wrap her frail hands around his shoulders.

"No." Sam urges firmly, his eyes pleading for Jessica to stay calm. Her heart races; with every motion around her, the blood pumping through her ears grows louder.

Constance shoots a nasty glare at Sam, baring rotten teeth and locking the doors. The Impala lurches forward with a groan and the tires squeal against the dry, worn asphalt. The spirit appears to drive on an unfamiliar route. Fear seizes Jessica, but she refuses to show it. Her legs burn with the desire to abandon the possessed vehicle, but deep down she considers that her fate is irrefutable.

The engine dies off with the lights, and Sam lifts his head to see a rundown house in his binocular vision. Jessica stares unblinkingly at the windowless structure, its roof caving in.

"You're scared to go home." She whispers. The ghost snaps her head in Jess' direction, fingernails arched over Sam's exposed belly. Something in her has changed; he can't put a finger on what it is. Constance suddenly lunges at Jessica, whose fingers make a quick motion towards the ignition of the car. A thunderous rumble rattles Sam's ribs as Jessica plunges the car into the house.

She tilts her chin downward, and the headlights' reflections illuminate her denim-washed baby blues. "Well, I'm taking you home."

What happens next is catastrophic; the car collides with a wall of windows, splintering and smashing wood. Sam and Jessica recover quickly, assessing each other and turning to face Constance. With a gesture, a dresser positioned against the wall slides into their direction, pinning them to the cool metal. Sam struggles to get the rock salt gun out of its simple holster, his gaze never leaving the ghost.

"No, Sam-look!" He looks up, impertinent.

Water begins to pour down the staircase in droves. Thick steam billows from the floor above, constricting Sam and Jessica's breathing. Squinting, he makes out to small shadows at the first landing. Their hands are joined together, and they speak in a cryptic chorus.

"You've come home to us, Mommy." It reminds him of The Shining.

Constance is disturbed by her children's song. Searing pain seems to ripple through her body as they embrace her tightly; the trio melt into the floor as a puddle of water in a matter of seconds. The pressure of the dresser lessens dramatically, and with ease it is pushed to the side.

"It's over..." says Jessica, skepticism lacing each word.

Sam shakes his head. "With hunting, it's rarely ever finished."

**A/N: Hey guys! Big THANK YOU to everyone who's read, favorited, reviewed, and followed this story! Tell me how you feel about this chapter! Where do you think this story should go next?**


	6. Things We See

His first vision is appalling.

It's Jess, and she's pinned to the ceiling. The stark scent of burning hair and flesh congests his nostrils as he stares up from the comfort of the mattress. He feels one inch tall, staring at her contorted face against the silent flames. That's what he finds most peculiar-the emotions swirling in his chest and the life fading fast from her eyes are burned into his brain, yet the fire itself is mute.

He reaches out to grab her, but the ceiling seems to be stretching out farther and farther away from his hands. She writhes weakly against the invisible constraints on her limbs, but it's futile. Her skin fades into a sickly white color; blue eyes glaze over as opaque.

Sam awakens, still feeling the heat on his fingertips and toes. The numbers on the alarm clock beside him glow harmlessly in the darkness.

The mattress groans with a shifting of weight; he realizes it's Jess, sound asleep, her limbs curled close to her body.

It had felt so_ real, _like the warmth and the blood and the screams were going to act out a movie in front of him.

But it was one time. He doesn't have to tell Dean if it was one time.

He looks at his brother for a second, stretched out in the bed across from him and Jess. His muscled back is turned away from him, the covers kicked to the left corner of the bedpost. That was how he'd always liked it, Sam remembered. Dean had always had a knack for looking more relaxed than he really was, even in sleep. It was what helped him maintain a cool exterior in the most intense of situations, and that was something Dad admired about Dean, even if he himself didn't see it much.

He hears a deep voice among an orchestra of crickets.

"Who?" Came the sharp whisper, slicing through the heavy air. His brother was on his cell phone. There was the scratching of ink against a notepad. "M-i-s-s-o-u-r-i? And she's in Lawrence?"

It sickens him, Lawrence. Too many things had happened there for him to like his hometown.

Dean clears his throat softly before speaking once more. "Alright. Thanks."

Sam hadn't meant to ask him who it was, but it had come out, as quiet and unsure as a child.

"None of your business, asswipe." Dean says sharply, his light eyebrows arching in surprise. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, groaning and leaning against the miserable-looking kitchenette that clung to the far wall.

"It was Dad, wasn't it?"

He closes the notepad and tosses the phone into his duffel, his shoulders brooding and pensive. "If I say yes, will you shut up?"

Sam sighs, raking his hands through his hair. "What did he want?"

"He's sending us to this psychic back home. Said she'll help us with a few things."

He huffs, agitated. It was typical of their father to not want to deal with a problem directly, rather letting a middleman concern themselves with him and Dean. It happened one too many times during his childhood to even be considered tolerable.

"What are you carrying on about now, Sam?" Dean snaps, pulling his leather jacket over a threadbare white t-shirt. Vibrant green eyes glow with an indignant intensity. It's his brother's version of Jessica's _Oh, Sam. _Dean was always expressive through the eyes.

"Dad isn't caring enough to let us find him," Sam replies. "Don't you see that, Dean? What- does he care more about his job than his family?"

Dean feels cold, like he's eaten a popsicle too fast. He measures his words carefully, because it's too fucking early to fight and Dad told him how crucial it was to get to Lawrence as soon as possible. This Missouri woman could easily feed them information they need on the thing that killed their mother.

"We are his sons. Remember that. Not only has he protected us for years and years, Sam...but he's taught us that sometimes, you got to put other people before yourself. So, maybe it's a good thing that he puts his job before us, little brother. Maybe it needs him more than we do."

He eyeballs Jessica for a second before shoving a Twinkie into his mouth. "Get her up. We got to go home."

Home. Something like that hasn't been said by a Winchester for years. It's almost comical, really, and he acknowledges it with a wistful sigh. If he were asked, Sam really couldn't identify what home was to him. He couldn't possibly recognize the house that had burned down when he was just a baby. The three of them had never even stayed anywhere long enough for Sam to call it home.

So, maybe Dean could call it that. But Sam just couldn't manage such a thing.

Jess doesn't ask many questions anymore, but when she does, they're good ones. It reminds Dean of when Sam was a baby, and spouted random facts and opinions like a broken water fountain.

Halfway in, and he's wondering if Missouri Mosley will actually do them any good. The three of them are all weary of psychics, wailing about nonexistent spiritual energy in the room and whatnot. Yet, he also put a hell of a lot of trust in his father, and if John was the judge of this woman, then she couldn't possibly be fake.

They get to Lawrence on a Monday, as the sun is rising. Jessica's eyes drift to the population sign hanging forlornly off of a wooden post. The city had lost four people in 1983.

She watches Sam, his pale skin bathed in orange light. He claimed he was exhausted at ten hours in.

"You know, Dean," she says through sips of coffee, "why didn't you ever visit?"

He has the nerve to laugh, pressing his tongue between his teeth. "Oh no," he snaps. "I did."

"You watched him then." It isn't a question. The fact that Dean could have watched them together at some point made her skin crawl. While she'd grown to tolerate him, the fact that Dean hadn't gotten the balls to approach his brother on campus vaguely disturbed her. But it wasn't her business; she didn't really know the gory details of Sam's past.

"Ding ding ding." He mutters dryly, rough grip on the steering wheel tightening as they pass by the cemetery.

"Why'd you keep a distance?"

He twists open a beer at a red light. "Well, princess-last thing my father said to Sammy was that if he was going to go, he should stay gone. And I watched Sam. Saw him forget his roots. And I realized... if he could drop me that easily..."

"That isn't true. He talked about you sometimes." She cuts him off, desperate. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line.

Dean's eyebrows lift. "What did he say?"

Jessica stares at the back of his head with wide eyes. "You taught him everything he needed to know. And he looks up to you, Dean. He loves you."

"Carrying them out of a house fire does that to people." Dean murmurs icily, pulling into a driveway. Gravel squelches and crunches under the Impala's tires. "We're here."

The outside of Missouri Mosley's house is shockingly normal. A glass wind chime in the shape of a hummingbird hangs from the porch light. Mail pokes out from the rusted iron mailbox. In the windows, white curtains are drawn tightly closed.

As soon as they come up the stairs, she swings her door open.

They seem to forget how to look down to meet her eyes. She's a stout, buxom black woman with beady brown eyes and a round mouth.

"You saw us coming." muses Dean with a tricky smile, nudging Sam.

"Oh, shut up Dean Winchester. Come in." She hurries past them and waves them inside. The only source of light in the house is the sunlight flooding in through the back windows, which is harsh and makes the three of them squint. Miniature trinkets and warding charms the brothers recognize hang in almost invisible crevices.

It reminds Jessica of her grandmother's house, neat and quiet and dusty. She tries to subtly at the woman, but Missouri flies from her seat and points at her.

"You ain't supposed to be alive!" She shrieks, swiping a tin of salt from the mantle of the fireplace and holding it close to her body. "How you here, girl?"

She isn't sure what gets her more; Missouri's accusation, or the inconsolable look on Sam's face.

"I...I said the exorcism in front of the demon." She says slowly, brushing her clammy palms down the thighs of her jeans.

Missouri nods thoughtfully, taking her time to pace around and study Jessica. "So you live. And that changes everything-"

"Okay, what the hell?" barks Sam, grabbing Jess' wrist and pulling her behind him. "Our father directed us to you. He said you'd help us with a few things..."

Sam has his second vision as he's trying to speak. It feels like he's having a stroke.

He's staring at this woman, trying to get the words out, and there's this paralysis seizing at the back of his mind. It's as if someone is drilling a hole through his brain from the nape of his neck. His temples throb, and his lungs feel like they're throwing themselves repeatedly against his ribcage. Mewling noises hitch and claw at the back of his throat, and all of a sudden Jess is touching his face, her mouth forming a little _o _as her speech gains speed.

_"Do you hear me, Sam? What hurts?"_

But then his mind is swimming in Jell-O, and everything slows down as if he's on a dialed-down carousel.

What he experiences is something he can't call a vision. It's more like hearing and feeling things with his eyes closed.

_Sam...Sam! _Bobby and Dean.

_No Sam you have to hold on, okay? For me, and our family! _Jessica.

A searing, disgusting pain rips through his spine and is gone as soon as it comes. He cries out for that.

And then he _sees_ people. Dying.

He wants to yell for them to turn around and run away, but his tongue is cut out. Men and women keep heading straight towards their deaths, blooming in front of him like a kaleidoscope.

_No no no no no I don't want to see this anymore_ _no no no no_

He claws at his hair, eyes, and mouth, trying to get something to work so he can save these people. He's been running into burning buildings since he was twelve years old. Is it a suicide mission? Maybe. Is hunting a suicide mission? Hell fucking yeah.

Sam wakes up to water slipping down his face in trickles. It isn't salty, so the droplets aren't his own. Jessica presses a cool compress to his head.

He turns his sight towards the doorway, where his brother and Missouri are talking heatedly. He reads body language. Dean's lips are narrowed, dark eyes glaring down in front of him. Missouri's hands are on her hips. That's such a motherly thing for her to do, he reflects. Not that he had a mother to do that.

He catches snippets of the conversation outside his door. Only one thing sticks in his mind.

Yellow-eyed demon.

**A/N: I'm sorry this is so delayed! School was busy this week! **

**Would you like to see Sam's death in the next chapter? Vote yes or no!**


	7. Things We've Lost

Death had always hit Jessica hard, but none rendered her more damaged than Sam Winchester's.

It had only taken two seconds for Jake Talley to lodge a knife into Sam's spine and extract it. She had screamed for him to turn around, but her efforts had been in vain; his back arched and seized with the pain that came alongside the stab. The blade gave a sickening twist in the perpetrator's black hands, and Sam's body gave a violent lurch. Jake had sprinted into the night, Bobby hot on his trail and armed with a gun.

But she and Dean dart towards Sam, who is on his knees and already delirious. Dean catches him in his arms, grabbing the skin around his neck to feel for the pulse thrumming beneath it, and Jessica watches helplessly from what feels like a million miles away. She kneels, Sam's head lolling back and forth like a Raggedy Andy doll she'd thrown away years ago.

"Sam..." Dean murmurs weakly, scratching fistfuls of his damp clothing. He falls forward onto Dean's shoulder, breathing labored and sedated, hazel eyes catching the weak moonlight and sliding to Jess. No response.

He was alive, for now. But_ he_ was gone_._

She doesn't know why, but she kisses his feverish forehead over and over, desperation filling the growing vacancy in her heart. Her vision is slanted with tears, and all of a sudden kissing her dying boyfriend is she only thing she knows how to do.

"Sam! Hey! Come here. Let me look at you, kid." Dean chokes out, staring straight at his brother. He presses a hand against Sam's wound, which is warm and thick with blood. He withdraws a shaky palm from his back and inhales sharply at the thin layer of crimson. Jess runs her hand through Sam's hair, smiling, smiling, smiling as if the world depends on it.

"Not even that bad...not even that bad, all right?" She kisses his cheek. "Hey, listen to me. We're gonna patch you up, okay? You're gonna be good as new." Every word quivers and falls to the ground, shatters like glass. Empty promises. She knows it can't be done.

Dean yells his brother's name. _Focus, Sam! _Just like Dad. Too much like Dad.

All Sam sees are indistinguishable colors and flecks of light. The pain in his back is worse than ever, and then all of a sudden is switched off, like the light in a bathroom.

He can't even keep his eyes open, and he feels stupid for that- _what normal person can't keep their eyes open _- and then there's warmth, and pressure on his shoulders. He knows it's Dean.

Sam tries to talk and call for Jess, but he's been silenced, like a caged bird.

Kisses on his forehead. Kisses in his hair. She is the last thing he wants to see before he dies.

_I'm gonna take care of you,_ he hears through the loudspeaker booming through his brain. I'm_ gonna take you care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Sam? Sam! Sammy!_

Darkness. He's floating. His eyes slide shut and his entire body sags to the ground, all that stupid dead weight and muscle slumping onto Dean.

"No. No, no, no, no. Oh, God." Jess breathes, clutching Sam as if he'll fall apart. She buries her face into his brown jacket, which smelled like grass and Old Spice but now all it does is smell like fucking blood. Tears she can't explain leak out of her once more, and her hand attaches itself to his dark hair. "Oh, baby," she whispers, "you'll be okay." She murmurs a _Hail Mary _into his shirt. She never does it again.

She rocks him like he's the baby she will never have. With every hiccup and convulsion her body disperses, she curls herself deeper and deeper into his silent chest, shaking her head wildly. The stench of copper sits in her nasal passages until she can't take it anymore, gasping for air that isn't clean but also doesn't reek of the dead.

"Dean..." Jessica croaks, her voice thin. He stands dangerously still in the middle of the cleared field, large hands pressed tightly against his head. Tears quiver threatingly in his disheartening eyes, and in a split second he releases the most frightening wail of anger she's ever heard in her life.

"God _fucking- fuck- damn it... _Sam! _N-NO!_" Dean sinks and deflates onto the ground as if on cue, his knees buckling into the damp dust and earth. His shoulders heave as if he'll vomit, but his body chooses not to; instead he cries, and his tall frame looks smaller than it's ever been, every few moments shuddering with small groans and hiccups.

Dean _needs _for Sam to look at him just one last time, even with that stupid bloody smile on his face, but he knows his baby brother _just can't move._

Maybe it's just a dream. He tries that.

He shuts his eyes and says a silent prayer. Opens them just the same. Sam continues to be dead.

His body is quiet as they leave the field and drive home, when they get through Bobby's door.

Jess and Dean sit together in his too-cold kitchen, stares alternating between each other in the clock, wanting to talk about Sam being dead but not wanting to reopen the wound in the same second.

"What are we going to do?" She asks, her face slack and devoid of any sadness.

Dean squints sideways at her and sighs. "I'm taking you back. To Stanford." He answers, slipping the Impala's keys into the front pocket of his leather jacket. "We are not going to hunt together."

"Yes, we are, Dean- we have to!" He snatches the sleeve of her jacket, his stormy expression unchanged, and she thrashes in his grip. _Sam would not want us to fight. This isn't happening._

_This_

_isn't_

_happening-_

"Let-me-go!" She cries with gusto. "Dean, I swear to God, let me go."

He grabs her roughly by the shoulders and maneuvers her body to face his, gritting his teeth. "You only came along for Sam," he says real slow, his lips moving with a certain kind of gentle, "And that's over now._" _

Her chest heaves in frenzied, jagged movements; she drops her voice to a low growl. "Dead or alive, I'm going to fucking stand by Sam. I'm doing this for him." She twists away from his brother, her eyes dropping to the tile on the ground. One black square is wedged among a sea of white. "I know you're angry. But... you can't. You can't do anything about it, okay? You can't take this out on other people."

He laughs to himself, the sound astringent and empty. "Watch me."

He makes a deal with a crossroads demon that night.

**A/N: Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it! Happy Castiel Day to those who don't! :)**

**Read and write your opinion! Who would you like to be introduced next- Ellen and Jo, Meg, or Ruby? Or is there someone else? Answer in the reviews!**


	8. Things We Defend

**Disclaimer: I do not own SPN or the song lyrics at the bottom of the page! All credit goes to Nancy Sinatra!**

When Sam awakens, it is the dead of night and his lungs burn.

There is a buzzing in his fingertips, and every sound is heard as crisp and sharp. The dull throbbing sitting dormant in his spinal cord erupts as he sits up and twists to stand. He feels weakened, punched in the gut even; no pain has ever been as grand as this. His eyesight wobbles as he careens toward the dirty mirror in front of him and lifts up his shirt with a small gasp.

The back of Sam's t-shirt is caked with blood in its darkest color, and in the center of the stain sits a raised pink scar along his back, smooth and perfect. It's tender to the touch, and he's afraid to breathe in fear of ravaging his equilibrium once more. But he does, and smiles weakly.

He walks to the doorway of the compact room, his swimming mind slowly connecting with his body. His eyes seem to reflect a heavy tiredness, like Sleeping Beauty- but he couldn't seem to grasp how long he'd slept. With growing uncertainty, he contemplated whether or not the condition he was in was some form of Purgatory or eternal Limbo, condemned to walk a path of unceasing motel rooms and winding Impala roads.

"Jess?" He calls, and louder, "Dean?"

He is matched with silence.

Gingerly, he limps towards the door, the floorboards beneath his heavy feet groaning with each step. Almost instantly, Dean twists the door open and puffs out a bit of air, relieved.

_Sammy? Thank God._

Dean goes on to explain what had happened within the time Sam had been out - _a week, kiddo, a full seven days - _until he asks about Jess.

"She's with Bobby," he says quietly. "I really don't know what she's doing."

"Well, how the hell not?"

Dean holds up his hands and purses his lips to speak. "We had a bit of an argument while you were out. About her hunting with you out of commission."

"Out of commission? It was a week!" He slams his fist on the table, dragging himself up from his chair almost reluctantly. His brother rises instinctively, giving him a curt shake of his head.

"How about we rest easy, Van Damme. This Jake kid knocked you around." Dean urges warningly, jutting out his chin.

Sam gives his brother a long stare before grabbing his jacket off of the coatrack. "Look, Dean, I don't care about you and Jess' problems. We have to go down there and see what they know."

_Whoa, whoa, whoa, _says Dean, as if they're little again. _C__an't you just take care of yourself for a little bit, huh? Just for a little bit?_

_"_No." says Sam, dark eyes pleading, pleading, pleading for Dean to let it go.

The Impala is purring within minutes, and Sam can't help but to grin at her signature purr and whine. The sun has made an appearance in the pale sky by the time they're eased onto the Alpine, Wyoming roads, and it casts shadows of pinks and yellows and oranges along the glistening onyx of the car's hood. There's small talk, but there isn't much to discuss besides possible cases and the Yellow-Eyed Demon.

He stifles his questions until Jessica is staring at him like she's seen Jesus Christ rise from the dead. Her blue eyes flick from him to Dean until she's all smiles and "come in"'s, as if she'd forgotten how to do it for a moment or two.

"Hey, Jessica." purrs Dean, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. His eyes plead with an underlying kind of paranoia, and she tenses.

"Dean." Her words are minced and measured, eyes level and arms crossed. She dips her head and swivels towards Sam, throwing her long arms around his neck, heart aching and stomach twisting and mind jumping from thought to thought so fast she thinks she's going to weep right there in the hallway.

Sam enfolds her into his side with a strong tanned arm, brushing pillowy lips onto her freckled forehead and golden hair. "Hi, Jess." He whispers, crevices emerging deep inside his cheeks.

"I can't believe you're okay."

A kiss.

"I am."

A reassuring hand slides down her back and rests against her knee.

"So, guys...Bobby's found some things, said they're demonic omens." She hands Sam an American map from the table, pointing to the southern region of Wyoming. "Crazy shit outside here."

Dean raises his eyebrows, clearly perturbed. "We just came from there. Can I talk to him?"

Sam's brow wrinkles.

We, not I.

Us, not you.

But she nods quickly. "Sure. Sam, can you take a look at the map for a second?"

"Uh-huh." He calls, and they're gone.

Jessica slams the basement door shut and faces Dean, wringing her hands in the air. "What did you do, Dean? How is he alive?" She pants and shudders, leering at the staircase once every so often as if he's going to come down it one ghostly step after another. She doesn't understand resurrection or even deals with demons, and he's glad about that; but she catches on quickly, and he knows it will catch up with them sooner or later. In a week Bobby appears to have helped her train-the bastard- and he won't outright admit that she's a little too easy on the eyes with a plaid shirt and belted cutoffs.

"A spell." He lies through his teeth, leaning against the cool brick wall. "So Brad and Angelina could be together again."

"Fuck off." She snaps, and Bobby comes through the door. He locks eyes with Dean, blue meeting a level green, and nods Jess towards the door.

_I'll handle this, Jessica, if you don't mind._

_Aye aye, Captain._

Bobby shakes his head, both disappointment and panic hanging over his head. He paces, steps slow and calculated, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them, mouth moving ajar and shut like a slow fish.

"Damn it, Dean." He spits it out like poison, his tone knowing.

"I did what I had to." His voice rolls smooth and low, like the ocean.

"How long? How long do you have?"

"Bobby, it ain't about that-"

_"How long do you have?"_

He holds up one finger.

He's shoved against the wall, struggling against Bobby's hold on his collar. His lips remain in a straight line, mustering a fleeting grin under the pressure. The sheer angst and agony in the older man's eyes makes his throat close and his eyes water. Pictures flash in front of him like an animated flip book.

Bloody Sam with his muscles clenching and hands tightening. Weeping Sam, eyes sweet and low, clutching the sleeve of Dad's leather jacket like he's still four and asking questions.

"I couldn't let him die, Bobby. I couldn't. He's my brother." Words race through his head, taking the form of his father's deep voice.

_Small. Weak. Defeated._

Bobby grabs his chin, tears slipping from the corners of his wide eyes. "How are Sammy and Jess gonna feel when they know you're bein' shipped to hell?" He can't even gather together the words, breathless and mournful of something that's a year away.

_But a year is so short_

"You...you can't tell them. You take a shot at me, whatever you got to do, but please don't tell them. They should be happy. They're getting married, Bobby, you know? Sammy's got a ring to give her, and she's going to make the prettiest wife..."

He lets himself out of Bobby's iron grip and starts to ascend the stairs. The hunter lets him go without question or thought. His boy's wide smile stands out amongst the light; it is bright and tearful, beautiful even.

"Let's go kill us some Yellow-Eyed Demon." he whispers, and joins Sam and Jessica at the table. Immediately, the two jump up, sharing expectant smiles before glancing back down at a new map. Sam points a finger at some rail lines and black x's littering the Southern Wyoming region.

"The reason why there's no demon activity is because of the 100-square mile Devil's Trap there," He explains, "and it's keeping something inside its center."

"But what? The only thing there is a cowboy cemetery." Jessica inquires.

"Exactly," Dean insists, surveying the gazes of everyone in the room. "I'm firing up the car."

The night shrouds the four of them in chilling grey mist. The ornate cemetery gate opens with a creak, and they press their backs against cool stones with the broken engravings of lost dates and names. A crypt surrounded by chipped wrought iron fencing beckons Sam's attention, and he reaches toward it for a moment before Bobby pulls him back.

Two separate engravings on the sepulcher spin in different directions, then pause abruptly, like clockwork. Something has ignited them, and he seems to recognize it.

"Bobby, what is it?" asks Jess, her gun pressed against her chest.

"It's hell." He whispers, his eyes on Dean as the young man snatches the Colt from the crypt with swift fingers.

The doors to the crypt burst open in a sound Sam can only describe as fireworks. A noxious black mass erupts from its depths and shoots outward, bursting in quick succession into the thick air. Demonic smoke continues to pour from the mausoleum, the gargoyles perched upon it shaking with immeasurable joy. Individual trails of smoke hare off into different directions, disappearing in thin slivers.

Jessica's head swings from left to right, gritting her teeth together. "What the hell just happened?"

"That's a devil's gate. Door to hell." Sam murmurs quietly, shifting against the dust and grass. The smoke continues to whine and wheeze from the crypt, its doors swinging wildly in the wind.

Thunder crashes formidably in the newly blackened sky, and Azazel himself dismisses the Colt from Dean's ashen hands and greets it in his own.

"You boys shouldn't play with Daddy's guns..." He laughs, the sound gravelly and corrupt. His tawny eyes scrutinize Sam, Jess, and Bobby struggling to close the gate, and pale lips twist into a honeyed grin.

He appears beside Sam, cocking his head to the side. "I'm proud of you, kiddo-I knew you had it in you."

Time stands still with Dean, torn between defending his brother and standing up for hunting as a whole.

But Yellow Eyes manages to walk towards him, his tone quiet and condescending among the wailing of the freed demons and ghosts. "How certain are you that what you brought back is 100% pure Sam? What's dead should stay dead."

He shrugs.

"But I couldn't have gotten back my Boy King without your pathetic, self-loathing, self-destructive desire to sacrifice yourself for your family, now could I?"

The words ring in Dean's ears. He stares down the barrel of the elegant Colt, hears Azazel cock and aim it right at the heart beating through his chest, and all he allows himself to do is shut his eyes and wish for a death that's quick and easy.

But the sensation is gone as a spirit seizes Azazel from behind, yanking him out of his aged and beaten vessel. The demon pushes the ghost to the wet earth and repossesses the body quickly. As the smoke rushes into open orifices and pores of the skin, the vessel puts forth a sickening dance of twitching and invisible puppetry. When it stands itself up, Dean grabs the Colt with measured hands and fires the demon.

And it is gone.

He is dead.

Azazel's body flickers an orange light, white-hot electricity running through its extremities. The door is closed, the cemetery is silent, and Dean and Sam stare at the ghost that has taken the distinct shape of their father, rugged and dark-haired with Sam's dimples and pale eyes.

Jess holds onto Sam's cool hand, watching John nod at his boys before fading into the harsh white light emanating from the Devil's Gate. No words are exchanged between them, but they know they've done well. Sam knows he'll be okay.

He kisses his girl in the light of the moon as they walk to the Impala, their shadows tripping and twirling behind them.

It's an eventful night.

_Bang bang, I shot you down_  
_Bang bang, you hit the ground_  
_Bang bang, that awful sound_  
_Bang bang, I used to shoot you down._

**A/N: Hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Re****ad and review, I appreciate it lots! Big THANK YOU to everyone who has gotten this story to where it is!**

**PLEASE ANSWER: Do you want Destiel!?**


	9. Things We Meet

Dean's death had been gruesome, and ugly, and despite his vigorously preparing Sam and Jess for it, no one was truly ready. The year had been quiet for the two of them, though; they hunted often, combating vampire nests and packs of werewolves among other things. As the months had passed, Sam realized that he lacked the courage he had once had to give Jessica the engagement ring in his backpack. Any strength or audacity he'd possessed had died with his brother, and that was that. But he could tell of her restlessness in the way her doelike eyes lingered on him from across the table, and the way it practically radiated from those thin, anxious hands with no ring on them.

She was going to leave, he had thought.

But she didn't.

He knew he should marry her, at least at some point in his life before she'd sever her ties and burn her bridges for good. She had stayed all of this time and he'd simply provided her with demonic exorcisms and salt rock firearms.

Money he'd saved as odds and ends went toward an upscale Italian place in New York City, complete with breadsticks and dim lighting. He'd even made reservations and cleaned the fed suit, exchanging his signature blue tie for a red one to match her dress. She's flustered in every sense of the term as she slips into her heels, turns around to see him watching.

"Sam!" Jess laughs, hugging him tight around the middle.

"God, you look wonderful." He whispers, staring out at the illuminated skyline. A helicopter whirrs overhead and the streets are congested with riotous cars, but she is in love with the city just as much as it is in love with her.

She presses her face into his shoulder, suppressing a tinkling laugh under her breath. "Why, thank you."

"Now, c'mon. We'll be late if we don't get a move on."

Their fingers brush together and find each other, interlocking like puzzle pieces.

"I love you." He says.

She kisses his forehead. "I love you, too."

When they open the door, Dean stands opposite the two. He looks more rough around the edges, with bruises on his knuckles and dirt caked under his fingernails; nonetheless, he wears the same clothes Sam and Jess had dressed him in _months_ ago. Bobby stands slightly off to the side, adjacent to Dean, the brim of his baseball cap tugged low over his brow.

Sam swallows, paling instantly, staring down at his older brother with a look of utmost awe written on his face. Jessica staggers back a few inches, her eyes on Sam as he grabs the butterfly knife from his pocket and lunges forward without a word.

"Who are you?!" He hears himself say to this foreign being that is not his brother. Dean is dead. Dean is in Hell, being tortured by someone who may not be Satan, but possibly just as horrible.

Hurriedly, Bobby hollers, shoving them both into the motel room. "I've been through this, Sam! It's him!" He hisses, wrestling for the blade. _"It's really him!"_

Something seems to switch off in Sam as he studies Dean, chest heaving and eyes the size of saucers. Bobby loosens his grip on Sam's broad shoulders, letting him slip through his fingers to sputter words he cannot even articulate.

_It's him it's really him_

_"_I know." Dean breathes, shrugging aimlessly. "Looks like you're going to be late, huh?"

Jess brushes tears off of her rosy cheeks, laughing and punching him in the arm. "Shut up, Dean."

The brothers stare at each other for a few moments, listening to the correlating sounds of each other's breathing. They embrace with a great resolve, Jess and Bobby looking on silently. Dean soaks it all in like a sponge, shutting his eyes and breathing in the clean scent of his brother. Sam shudders in his arms, prisoner of his own thoughts for a moment.

The door is shut as Dean eases into a chair and questions are raised.

"So, what exactly did it cost? To bring me back?" He asks, glancing at Jessica.

"We didn't do it, Dean." She says evenly, folding her arms on the table.

"There's no other way this could've went, Jess- so who did it? You? Or Him?"

She rises abruptly, walking around to his side of the table. Her shoes clack against the silent wooden floors. "We tried everything, Dean. You were rotting in hell for months- _for months-_ and we couldn't do a thing about it." She points at him and her voice quavers for just a second, breaking as she presses her mouth shut. "We're sorry, okay?"

He exhales and rubs the heels of his palms against his tired eyes. "Alright. I believe you. But if you two didn't do anything..."

"Who did?" Bobby finishes.

"Demons?" Sam suggests, putting his arm comfortingly around Jess. The ring burns a substantial hole in his pocket, right where the knife had once been.

Discomfort spreads throughout the room as Bobby and Dean share a worried look. "Preferably not demons." Dean quips with a smile.

The older man raises his eyebrows in remembrance, holding up a finger for a moment's notice. "Look, I've got a psychic friend in Illinois. Maybe the other side's come a-knockin?'"

"Hell yeah, it's worth a shot." agrees Dean. As Bobby exits, he assesses the couple's clothing with a crude smirk. "Any where were you two crazy kids going?"

"Out." They say in unison.

"Out, or _out?" _

Jess chews on her bottom lip, suppressing a giggle. "Dean fucking Winchester, I'm going to kick your ass."

He leans back in his chair, nodding brusquely. "Oh, I'm scared. Bring it."

If he had said such a thing to psychic extraordinaire Pamela Barnes, things would have gone much differently. She was a stick thin white woman with a chest and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, opening the door in nothing but a Ramones tank top and boyfriend jeans.

Pam had greeted Sam, Dean, and Jess like old friends, drawing them together in a hug and muttering greetings in a grainy voice. After she'd given them the typical once-over with steel gray eyes, they were sat down and given the situation.

"A seance is the best way to go here. And no, Bobby, I ain't summoning the damn thing here." She insists, throwing a patterned cloth over a circular table and bending to retrieve a bundle of candles. The words_ Jesse Forever are _emblazoned in curled script on the small of her back, and Dean stares.

"Who's Jesse?"

"Oh, he certainly wasn't forever, if that's what you're asking."

"His loss."

She gathers the pillar candles in her arms and pauses right in front of him, her smile sickeningly sweet. "Might be your gain." Pivoting towards Sam and Jess, Pamela gently tugs on one of her curls. "You're invited too, Princess."

Jess blinked, flustered. "Oh...no, I don't-"

"Let's get started." Pam interjects, placing the candles in formation and lighting them. "Take each other's hands. And Dean, I'm going to need to touch something our mystery monster touched, if you don't mind." She grins at him expectantly.

He pulls up the sleeve of his left arm and feels the heat rush into his cheeks from the surrounding onlookers. The pressure she exerts on it is enough to make him squirm and feel a distinct phantom pain, as if she were the one that had left this enigmatic thing on his skin. Yet she had not.

She begins to chant.

_I invoke, conjure, and command you appear onto me before this circle  
____I invoke, conjure, and command you appear onto me before this circle  
__I invoke, conjure, and command you appear onto me before this circle_

The television activates to static.

The table vibrates at an extreme caliber. Jessica tears her eyes open and whips her head around to watch Pamela.

She receives a name in all of the commotion. Castiel.

"Castiel?" Dean repeats, slow and halting.

_I conjure and command you, show me your face_

A high-pitched noise pierces their eardrums.

_I conjure and command you, show me your face_

The chairs shake despite the weight of the people seated on them. Glasses shiver and shatter onto the ground. She continues to chant, the words louder and at a faster speed.

Bobby clears his throat. "Maybe we should stop-"

"I almost have him!" Pamela roars.

_I command you to show me your face  
____I command you to show me your face  
__I command you to show-_

The seance is interrupted by a piercing scream as the noise reaches a fever pitch and white light explodes from the eyes of Pamela Barnes. The flame from the candles jumps several feet into the air as she collapses against the table, blood trickling from hollow ocular sockets. She sobs into Bobby's hands about her lack of sight, clawing at the carpeting and one of the legs of her chair.

"You've got to get him now. Go!" She screams, her eyelids flying open to reveal pure blackness. Jess stands, allowing one last look at a distraught Pamela before blocking the wail of the ambulance sirens from her ears.

Her mind is set.

As Dean looks over inventory in the trunk of the Impala, she stands by. "We have to summon whatever this is, you know?" Sam comes up behind her, his eyes flicking back towards Pamela's house. A window was blown out where they were performing the seance. Sparkling glass shards were tossed amongst dry weeds and undergrowth.

Dean gives a curt nod before circling around towards the driver's seat. "I know. There's an abandoned warehouse right off the highway Bobby's decking out."

The drive is tense with Dean hunched over the steering wheel and Sam planting kisses against Jess's cheek. He hears them speaking in hushed tones, and strains to listen.

"It'll be fine. I swear." Sam stammers, his tone gentle and reassuring as he strokes her hair.

She shifts her head against his chest. "I don't want anyone else getting hurt, Sam."

There's a brief pang of jealousy, but he shrugs it off because Sammy's always deserved having such a beauty around. They exchange words for only a few minutes more, until they seem to be perfectly fine communicating without them. When the car stops, it is midnight, and water trickles loudly from an unexpected river behind the lot. When they enter the warehouse, Dean commends Bobby on such a wicked art project, how in the hell did you do that so fast?

"Dunno. But it's every trap and talisman known to man." He gives the spray paint can one last shake before tossing it into a crate, content with his work.

Jess sits on one of the workbenches, crossing her long legs at the ankles. "Well, we've got salt, iron, knives, stakes, and rock salt. Why not get it over with now?"

Sam begins the ritual by pinching a strange powder into a large bowl, which begins to emit thick gray smoke. A short while later, a mass shaking bombards the roof, and thunder collides with the sizzling red metal. With a shout, the four arm themselves with shotguns and walk against the far side of the warehouse. Pressure from all sides of the building force the walls to begin to cave. The door whips open with the force of the wind, and a wiry-looking businessman clothed in a distinctive beige trench coat stalks inside. With each step, a lightbulb overhead bursts and rains glass over their heads; smatterings of sparks dance in the air, which buzzes with electricity. He is invincible, with knives and bullets proving no effect.

"Who are you?" Dean says, draped in confusion as he stares at the blue-eyed man. He responds simply, standing with his feet a shoe's-length apart, full pink lips slow-moving.

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." He raises his head. "I am Castiel."

**A/N: This was the introduction of Castiel! I'm actually very proud of it. I'm so happy you guys love the story. The real drama is soon to come, I promise. **

_**Please leave feedback on this chapter! What did you like? What didn't you like? **_


	10. Things We Fear

"What are you?" Dean demands, straightening his back. The knife he wields gleams dangerously in his stained, freckled hands.

Castiel looks beyond Dean as if he is not there. "I am an Angel of the Lord."

A smile spreads across Dean's face, and he shrugs. "So, where's the halo? Where're the wings?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Castiel's face glows, and with a flash of white lightening, majestic black wings protrude slowly from his muscular back and stretch out into the distance. As soon as darkness once again consumes the warehouse, the silhouette is gone, and the angel's startlingly pale eyes rest on Dean once again. "My wings."

Jessica, her gun still at the ready, eyes Castiel warily. "Some angel you are-you burned Pamela's eyes out."

The angel stiffens, but only minutely. "I warned her. Only certain exceptions are able to view my true visage." His voice is monotonous, and yet it beckons Dean to listen to it.

"Right," he scoffs, "And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?" He paces the room, circling the mysterious being with caution, and he follows.

"Good things do happen, Dean." Cas insists quietly. Sam is enraptured by him, studying each timid movement.

But Dean is not convinced by the angel's words, and commits to silence.

"What's the matter?" His voice echoes against the silent walls of the warehouse. "You don't think you deserve to be saved?" His eyes soften in a form of offense, and the trench coat draped over his shoulders flutters in the soft wind drifting through the doors of the building.

"Why'd you do it?"

Castiel sighs with a pleased smile on his face. "Because God commanded it," he says, repeating the name over and over again. _Because God commanded it. _

Jessica never really did believe in any ominous presence. Santa Claus, perhaps, but no one who retained as much power as God himself. She said prayers now and again, and didn't dare to call herself an atheist, but if God really did exist, why did He permit so much strife within the human race? Why did His people have to suffer?

If you were to ask Sam's opinion on God, he'd say he believed. The man upstairs had obviously not looked out for his mother, nor his father; but he wanted to think that they lived in a better place as of now. God worked in mysterious ways, Sam knew that much. While he had never come into contact with an angel before, never really looked one in the eye like he was now, Sam had always had an instinct that they were really and truly alive.

_Angels are watching over you, baby_

In the moment that Sam blinks, the man's lanky frame disappears from view.

Jess raises her eyebrows, alarmed. "What-where did he-?" She rushes forward, lowering her weapon, eyes flicking around the room for a flash of dark wings or his distinctive white glow.

"He's an angel." Bobby soothes. "It happens."

They retreat back to the motel, the air of defeat hanging heavily over their heads. What Sam does not understand is the lack of marvel they'd found in the fact that they'd discovered an angel. An hour ago the four of them had thought angels were simply mythological, after all. He doesn't question it, however, and spends most of his night researching the nature of angels and thinking about his proposal.

The course of the day is threaded with uneasiness about Castiel's relative location, along with a peculiar dream. It is Jess who has the dream, and as one who dabbled in interpretation, this is the one she refuses- and really, can't- decipher.

She stands tall in a wide, lavishly furnished room, complete with a set of chairs ringed around a large mahogany table. On one of the winding staircases is perched an older man with a thin, gruesome face. His oily black hair is slicked back over his sallow, sagging skin, and a hawklike nose protrudes from the middle of his face. He is clothed in a simple black suit, one a John Doe would be dressed in for his funeral, and the only jewelry he bears is a plain metal ring with a white stone in the center.

"Hello, Jessica." says the man.

"Hello." She says back.

The only sounds in the room are the padding of his feet against each step of the staircase. As he reaches the bottom, his black pupils search quickly to meet hers. "I'm so happy to finally meet you, you know."

"Who are you?"

He sighs as if he always answers such a question. "I have many names, but that doesn't really matter, Miss Moore. What does matter, however, is that you were supposed to die in that little incident a while back."

She knows exactly what incident, and it frightens her, that such a small man seems to know all of her secrets and what the hell to do with them.

"Excuse me?"

He continues as if he hadn't heard a thing. "But you didn't, and that's upset the natural order of things. How do you say- the circle of life." He talks with his hands, like the fat Italian man at the deli she used to go to, and what he's talking about seems to fascinate him a lot.

He clears his throat and sits in the frontmost chair at the table. "I am not letting you have a happy ending with Samuel Winchester, Jessica. You have to die to cease the disrupting of the order." He speaks to the invisible board of executives in front of him, not to her, and she hates it.

"And if I don't?" She asks, settling at the opposite end.

"There will be no 'if I don't.' You see, I can kill you right now." The man tents his fingers underneath his chin, the white stone on his ring gleaming in the soft light. He tosses a look at the flowering frangipani plant tucked into the corner of the space; it withers on sight. Blooms turned a sickly green shrivel into ugly faces and fall from the stem, disintegrating smoothly into the dry dirt. His resulting smile is dangerous, like the Cheshire Cat, and he speaks slowly. "But that would just be too simple, wouldn't it?"

She nods.

"You're right. I like to play with my food." He muses thoughtfully, and stands as a final dismissal to the board and Jessica.

And then he is gone.

**A/N: HELLO! I know this is short, but it's quite a pivotal part in our little story :) Any idea who that was and where they were? Do you like how this is going so far? **


	11. Things We Couldn't Avoid

Castiel proves to be a literal Godsend in his constant updates on the inner workings of Heaven, but whenever he does visit, it's quite the invasion of personal space. Dean makes jest of his monotonous voice, calling him a "holy tax accountant" for the getup, until they all find it funny. He's fiercely loyal, nonetheless, and makes one too many futile attempts at imitating the movements and mannerisms of the humans around him. But he's a good soldier.

When Jessica comes to her senses, he is hovering in the corner of the room with a neutral expression on his lined face.

"Do you like watching people sleep or something?" She says drearily, running her hands through her hair. He ignores her.

"Death came to you in your dream."

The man with the ring. Death.

Jess sits up slowly, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I guess you could say that," She whispers without question.

After a beat of silence, he talks, choosing his words expertly. "You should not worry yourself with his empty promises," Cas promises, blinking calmly. The anger flaring deep inside her ribcage bubbles dangerously and burns her throat rushing to the surface.

"Death comes to me in a dream, says he will kill me for disrupting The Natural Order, and you insist I shouldn't worry?! Is that some kind of sick joke to you?" She stands, close to screaming, eyes wild and hands wound tightly together.

"No!" He snaps, raising his voice for the first time. "You're a prophet- a future prophet. That means Heaven vows to protect you."

"They'd only vow to protect me if I can give them something that they _want_." She shakes her head, backing away from him.

Castiel squares his shoulders and readies his gaze on her, his breathing slow and steady. "Jessica, you have to trust me on this. The angels of the garrison are willing to protect people like you."

"People like me," She says gently. It sounds as if she isn't human; foreign, exotic. A freak of nature, a show, a magic act, anything but Jessica Lee Moore, the mere mortal. She stiffens and talks, but the voice doesn't sound like hers. "Fine. I believe you."

He disappears with the flutter of curtains and homely windchimes. When Sam pokes his head into the room, she pulls him onto the groaning white mattress and makes senseless, selfish love to him, because Death was just around the corner anyway.

The Apocalypse looms.

The trio soldiers on.

They take down a werewolf in Minnesota, and Jess learns how to splint a broken bone. The hunt for the infamous Colt leads them to Poughkeepsie, New York, and keeps them on their toes. In a whirlwind of events they come across a certain Bela Talbot, who is 5'8" and 120 pounds worth of ruthless, bitchy behavior.

She's dressed in black Chanel riding boots and a brown leather jacket, pacing circles around them while she laughs. Her glossy brown hair brushes against her shoulder blades. "Well, what do I have here? Two Kens and a Barbie."

Jess cocks her head to the side and positions herself in front of the woman, who is three inches shorter than she. "Where is it?"

"I told you where it was. I gave it to Lilith, _Buffy_." Bela simpers, looking pleased with herself. She stands content in the muddy ground surrounding her, perfectly coiffed and groomed, her bright green eyes flicking subtly towards the brothers Winchester.

Sam clears his throat and grabs her by the jacket. "No, you didnt. Here's a hint: try Crowley."

Her smug face deflates in front of him, but only for a moment. "What the _Hell_ did you just say?"

Dean nods his head towards his brother. "You heard 'em. Looks like your little plan wasn't so foolproof, huh?"

Bela throws her head back and tugs down the collar of her shirt, making a crude face. "Oh, _bite me, _Dean." She moans, and sarcasm drips from the words.

Sam steers her towards him. "If we find you again, we'll probably kill you."

She shoves herself off of him and stalks in the direction of the highway, kicking some mud in their direction as she goes. "I'll see you bloody idiots in Hell!"

They watch her for a couple of minutes, allowing her escape for turning forth the information, and Crowley easily climbs to the top of their list of priorities. It takes Castiel's help to both identify track him down, and by then Christmas fever has settled upon wherever they go.

But somehow, he gets to them first.

It was the first snow of the season in Indiana, and a heavy one at that; news stations were warning their listeners to stay off the roads. The Impala braved the winter winds in the Triway Inn parking lot, and Dean was anxious. With Sam supplying a round of eggnog that was spiked a bit too high for the liking of their livers, his anguish- as well as the fears of everyone else- seemed to sleep away after a couple of bottle passings.

She's awake first, being the light sleeper that she is, and the mundane sound of the doorbell is what draws her from her buzz and the warmth of the bed.

A short man in an intricately tailored suit stands on the doormat, accompanied by a lithe young blonde with short, cropped hair cut to the jawline. They both appear invincible to the flurries of snow whirling around them. When they see Jessica, the pair look surprised, and dissect her for a moment as if they don't know who she is.

"Why, we've got ourselves one of Charlie's Angels," The man gibes, sharing a look of amusement with the girl. Something registers in Jessica, _demons, _and her hand lays poised against the flask of holy water in the drawer behind the door. With a wave of his hand, the man shuts the door and sits her, immobile and voiceless, on a chair. She's a regular damsel in distress.

"We know you've got tricks up your sleeve, and we aren't playing." purrs the girl, her voice laced with demand and heartlessness. "So, what were you? Sammy Winchester's one night stand?"

_You wish, _she thinks, disgruntled. A Mason jar of blessed water is also stuffed into the duffel bag by the far wall. If it were to break, it'd pool by the demons' feet.

The female demon crosses her arms in annoyance and leans forward, her face right in front of Jessica's. "You think you're in the clear, don't you? Think you're unknown?"

That draws her head up.

"You're not." She starts ticking off facts like she'd learned them in school. "Your name is Jessica Lee Moore, from California. Born on January 24, 1984, to a Ronald and Olivia, and you've got a brother and a sister who don't hear much from you anymore. Popped out in Pacifica, raised in Burbank, always wanted to be a little nurse..."

"Shut up." She barks out, her voice jumping back into her throat.

"But now you're disrupting the order." The demon continues. "Daddy told us. Said if we could kill you, we'd go on to bigger and better things. Hell's very own royalty."

"I don't care."

"Because you're alive, beauty queen...a woman and her baby died in the house fire that was supposed to be set for you. Ain't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?"

"_Shut up."_

_Beauty queen Beauty queen_

The man, who she'd seldom heard from, rises from the shadows with the Colt, in all its glory, in his hand. He points its slender barrel up in the air, smiling. "You'll never live long enough to have that apple-pie life with these stooges. Hate to break it to you, love." His Scottish accent tapers off with an air of elegance and pride.

Like an expert marksman, the demon aims the infamous gun at her heart. The girl cheers him on, and Jess closes her eyes. She expects a loud blast in her ears, something, anything, but all of a sudden the girl's glee is cut short by a strangling scream. There is a mannish yelling, but it recedes; all that is heard then is the terrifying weeping and annihilating of the remaining demon. Behind her eyelids, Jess feels a warm, bright light, but doesn't dare open them until it fades.

Castiel stands in the clearing, his eyes settling on Jessica in seconds. The charred body of the female demon is crumpled in the newfallen snow, black blood trickling from her mouth in two straight lines. She looks peaceful, like a chalk outline on a clean street, while her accomplice remains.

The first words out of her mouth are Cas' name. The angel simply glares at the demon. "So you're Crowley. And that was Meg."

"You better believe it, you angelic asshole. Can't believe you sent my little miscreant back to Hell." Crowley scoffs witheringly before staring daggers at Jess. He holds up the weapon. "Look, but don't touch. Now, isn't this what it's all about, kiddos?"

Silence.

"Let me get away scot-free and I'll gift this to the Hardy Boys." He stops. "Speaking of those supersleuths, where are they?"

"Very intoxicated in their motel room." says the angel innocently.

Crowley shudders. "Of course they are. Well, be a dear and give them this message for me: kill the Devil A.S.A.P." With great care, he presses the gun into Castiel's steady hands, and vanishes in a chilling wind. His words resonate in their heads.

Jessica looks up at the sky overhead, which stretches white in all directions.

_Kill the Devil, little girl. It's the __Apocalypse now._

With a fleeting look at the woods behind her, she enters her motel room with a sugary smile and a new gun. It's dawned on her that every second is a fight for her life.

**A/N: Eleven chapters in! What do you think about Crowley and Meg? Or Jess's new situation? Tell me in the reviews! :)**


	12. Things We Vow

Two things happen over the course of three weeks- Lucifer is not killed, and three great hunters die in the process.

Yet, the Apocalypse is still upon them, and time seems to run together as leads run dry. One thing they don't shake off is the Four Horsemen, whose rings connect to reveal Lucifer's Cage.

"The Four Horsemen." says Jess, playing with a curl of Sam's hair. "From the Bible?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, they're pretty damn real." Two rings, severed from the hands of War and Famine, rattle aimlessly in the glove compartment.

"That's insane, I mean-" She begins to speak, but is interrupted by Crowley appearing, alive and well, beside her in the car. A squeak escapes from her, and the boys turn to look in shock.

Crowley leans back in his seat and smirks generously. "Hello, lady and gents. I see you're having a bit of trouble finding Horseman Numero Tres."

"Hop off, Crowley." Sam says.

"How about you hop off, Jolly Green, because I can help you find Mr. Icky Sicky." The demon glares at him, crossing his arms before rolling his eyes skyward.

"Oh, really? How?" scoffs Jessica, narrowing her eyes. She's dressed like a rogue in torn jeans and Sam's old t-shirt.

Crowley's lip curls at the sight of her. "My, have _you_ accustomed to hunting nicely. And, well, I have his location. But it will cost you."

Dean bangs his fist on the dashboard, his face twisted grimly. "Listen up, you arrogant dick. We need the location of Pestilence unless you want the worst of the worst- to face all those adoring fans of yours in Hell. Speak up, or God so help me-"

"He's gone." Sam mutters irritably. "Nice going, Dean."

Jess presses her clammy hand against his arm soothingly, pleading eyes meeting his. "We'll just look for severe outbreaks of sickness from the time the Horsemen got released. There's bound to be a pattern, a connection... something." She leans forward and smiles at Dean a little. "Right?"

He chuckles under his breath a little, staring straight ahead. "We make a good team, you, me, and Sammy."

A slow smile spreads across Sam's shy face, and he kisses Jess, long and sweet. Tendrils of gold tickle his face and the back of his neck, and she grins excitedly into the kiss.

"I have an idea," she whispers into his skin.

"What is it?"

She chews on her bottom lip, clean fingernails toying with the neck of his flannel. "Let's get married. Now."

Dean stops the Impala almost spontaneously, his hands dropping from the wheel. He twists to look at her, his light eyes greener than ever, mouth slack. "I thought we were tracking Pestilence, Blondie!"

She laughs breathlessly. "We are, Dean, but it's the end of the world! Who knows how much time we all have left?" There was the smallest hitch in her girlish voice. If it was in any other context, it easily could have been sentimental, but she was Jessica, and that was that.

Dean doesn't say anything, but stares at his brother for any guidance at all. Sam glances at her and nods coolly, planting a kiss firmly on the top of her head.

Jess wraps her arms around his neck, simultaneously running her fingers through his hair and directing Dean towards Las Vegas, Nevada.

"Interstate 15, Barbie? You want to get married in LV?" He says, raising his eyebrows. Sam stares out the window, appearing undisturbed, transfixed on the flashing lights and glamour of the city before him.

"I know what I want, Dean."

She asks to stop at a dressy boutique by the chapel, and the boys accompany her in reluctance. But no matter what their reactions are, she seems to be happy, spinning in every different kind of white wedding dress imaginable. Tawny tresses, drawn high in a ponytail, whip around her as she models gowns in front of the three-way mirror.

The one she decides on is a creamy color, with a lacy, pearly train. The sole grandeur of its netted, sweeping form accentuates her legs, which seem to go on for miles.

"Do you like it?" Jess whispers chokingly, watching her body move in the glass on the wall. It's truly magical, something she hasn't dreamed of since the incident. All she can see on herself are the cuts and burns that have accumulated over the months, and they stand out like angry bruises, blooming flowers against ice-white skin.

Sam watches with childlike wonder on his face. "It's beautiful."

When Dean looks over at his brother, it is almost like all the hurt and pain of each of the twenty-three years of his life has melted. The lines on his young, worried face have vanished in order to make way for the laugh lines, the smile lines, the lines of his skin she's bound to trace sooner or later. It takes Dean thirty seconds to collect himself.

"Looks good, kid." He advises. "I'm paying for it."

She's a beauty, Jessica, dressed in a white gown and ringlets of flaxen blonde. When she steps out of the car at the drive-in chapel, trucks and taxicabs zipping down the street all honk their horns in admiration. A bubble of pride sits in the heart of her chest, and as soon as she feels the clicking of her shoes in her ears, she knows she can't turn back. The black and white tile of the chapel swims in her line of sight, but she fights to smile, because it's her wedding, the joining of her and Sam.

But she had imagined it differently, so much differently.

Mendelssohn's Wedding March would have played, and bridesmaids and groomsmen from Stanford could have been the harbingers of both joy and bride. Sam would be there, and Dean would be there, and even their father could have tried to slip into one of the straggling pews in the back. There'd be an actual priest preaching an actual faith Sam believed in, and the kiss would have been legendary, brought to an end only by the dying out of thunderous applause.

Yet Elvis, greasy, overweight, and drunk, married the Samuel and Jessica Winchester of now. There hadn't even purchased wedding rings, because all the money went towards renting her pretty dress.

They settle in at the adjoining motel roaring drunk and not really caring about much else. Sam and Dean cannot seem to control what they're saying or doing, but she can, and chooses to cry in the dirty bathroom with the cockroaches and flickering lights.

_This whole thing is a fucking cliche, _she says, tears slipping down her face, and she wishes they'd drown her.

_You shouldn't be surprised, _her conscience taunts, _That Sam of yours is such bad luck._

It makes her so undeniably sad that her conscience may be right, but she decides to brush it off as a beautiful lie.

_But why am I crying?_

Her conscience wants to laugh. _You__ could have had so much more. You could have been normal. But now you're just a freak._

"I'll drink to that," She says to no one in particular, and knocks it back alone, toasting her wedding by herself.

**A/N: So, I wanted to originally write Jessica as the typical 'strong' woman, but we already have enough of those. So, maybe she's not only strong. Chapter 12 :) Opinions? The hunt for Pestilence is still on!**


	13. Things We Win And Things We Don't

The following morning, regret hung in the air like dirty laundry. They left the motel early, with barely paid rent and a trashed room. Dean had run the affair stone-faced and maddened, and it echoed every time John failed on a hunt.

Jessica herself couldn't bear to look at Sam or Dean, and sat in the Impala with her feet pressed against the driver's seat. Her watery eyes struggled to read the newspaper folded on her lap.

**_Sudden Influenza Outbreak Kills Fifteen in Idaho! _**The boldened letters screamed. Beneath it, there was a photograph of a family walking down the street. Nothing looked amiss despite the fact that they all adorned gas masks.

But that was where Sam had predicted the next outbreak would be- Kendrick, Idaho. And it was in a hospital at that.

* * *

Deep in the pit of his belly, Pestilence anticipated their coming. Nevertheless, he didn't spare an ounce of energy to care for the small band of twentysomethings to bust in and invade his domain, his lair of sickness and disgusting grime. With underlying eagerness, he stalked the raw hallways of the hospital, adjusting his glasses and blowing his nose. One touch to their doorways almost always did it, and before he could exhale another breath, there was screaming and erratic beeping coming from the room he stood before. And he relished in it. Pestilence could practically _taste _the writhing pain these people felt attacking their very core, and he threw his head back and laughed as doctors and nurses on the inside practically bombarded the walls of the rooms they were locked into.

The people in Kendrick had weak immune systems. They dropped like flies, no matter what the illness was. Medics barely had enough time to diagnose their patients before they, too, came down with similar symptoms and aches and cramps.

"Let the Winchesters come," he murmured as he turned the corner, towards the Geriatric Ward. The old, the ones knocking on death's door, humored him the most. They actually believed he could help them get better.

He tightened the characteristic white coat around his lean body, and entered the room of an elderly woman in bed.

"Dr. Green!" croaked the elder, a smile appearing on her thin, sagged face.

"Ah, Celeste. My most favorite patient of all." Celeste did not seem afflicted by Pestilence's presence; not yet. He hypothesized that her ailments could be administered by touch.

Almost endearingly, the Horseman leaned forward and touched her cheek. "My, my, my. Seems you've got the common cold, dengue fever, and a nasty, nasty case of Japanese encephalitis." Fleshy red pox marks crawl up her aged skin, and she yelps in surprise at the forming clusters. His hand trails towards her chin. "... And chicken pox."

Apparently with great effort, Celeste asks if he is going to cure her. He tells her that she is going to die.

As the life fades from her darkened eyes, Pestilence rises from his chair and turns towards the door. A young nurse bursts through it, black pools for eyes shining in the fluorescent light.

"The Winchesters are here," she says like a drone, her hands at her sides and nurse's hat askew. "We must leave, sir. These...these termites have a track record with the Horsemen."

Pestilence's eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. Quickly, he waves the idea away. "Nonsense. I demand revenge for the defeat of my brothers. War and Famine...they deserve to be avenged."

He paces the room, shoving Celeste's corpse aside to sit on the bed. His fingers sit steepled beneath his chin. Noting the demon's prolonged presence, Pestilence raises his head. "Whatever is the problem now?"

"We are under strict orders _not to kill the vessels._" The demon reminds him gently, tapping at her clipboard with a red fingernail. "But, sir, the girl with them has a price on her head."

It is as if a switch has been turned on inside the man. "My love, you are perfect. _Perfect_," he whispers, pressing a kiss atop her costume. He glances down at the ring adorning his right hand. "Let's get the party started, shall we?"

He turns the jewelry around his finger three times counterclockwise. An almost ripplelike affect tears through the building, affecting all who haven't been as of then. It brings music to his ears to hear the coughing, the groaning, the sneezing, the crying...

Dean is among the first to clutch the sides of his stomach, crouching low towards the ground. Violent coughing rises up in his throat, and he screws his eyes shut. He has to concentrate to breath. The agony he feels nearly surpasses that of his encounter with the hellhounds, which still runs fresh through his mind from time to time.

"We're almost at the room, Dean!" barks Sam with desperation, clamping the sleeve of his brother's jacket and hauling him towards one of the doors. His own eyes had become itchy and bloodshot, and it took everything he had to fight off the urge to scratch, which grew greater with each passing second. Irritated, burning blisters had begun to blossom over his skin, and Sam painfully looked over his shoulder to see Jessica, who was writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth.

In that moment, Pestilence opens the door.

"Sam! Dean! Jessica! Come right in." He says with a sharklike smile, and rakes both hands through his thinning silver hair. He pauses for a moment, taking in the sights and sounds coming from the people in front of him. With a sweet chuckle, he begins his monologue.

"So, my little patients. It appears Sam here is suffering from Chagas disease and impetigo. Dean-O's got stomach cancer and tuberculosis. But I decided to go a little easy on Jess. She's got a grand mal seizure from some epilepsy she's got."

Sam could only describe her seizure as electricity igniting throughout her body, short-circuiting and hitting dead ends. Without acknowledgment, Pestilence pushed ahead.

"Disease gets a bad rap, don't you think? For being filthy. Chaotic." He sneers, shaking his head. "But really, that just describes people who get sick. Disease itself is very pure and single-minded." He pulled out a syringe from the biohazardous waste receptacle in the corner of the room and maneuvered it through his fingers. With reckless abandon, Pestilence began a slow trek along Dean's right hand. Helpless, Dean could only cough up more blood and watch the doctor speak.

"That's why, in the end, disease _always_ wins. So, you've got to wonder why God pours all his _love_ into something so messy and weak! It's ridiculous! All I can do is show him he's wrong, one epidemic at a time. Now, on a scale of 1 to 10, how's your pain? Should I...up the dosage?" He cocked his head to the side and leaned over to expel another disease from his fingertips.

With the signature flap of his wings, Castiel stood defensively in the doorway.

"Cas..." said Dean and Sam in unison.

"How did you get here?" Pestilence demanded, his face a mixture of bewilderment and irritation.

"I took a bus," He shot back. "Don't worry, I...I..."

Without warning, the angel gripped the side of the table and exhausted a bout of atrocious coughing. His face flushed, and unfamiliar heat rippled throughout his body. As it receded, it came back again, with increasing intensity. Cas was positive this is what death felt like.

Pestilence guffawed in his face. "Would you look at that. An occupied vessel, but powerless! Ooh, that's fascinating. There's not a speck of angel in you, is there?"

Hotly, Castiel grabs Sam's knife and steadies himself enough to cut off the Horseman's fingers. The ring falls onto the carpet, twirling once.

"Oh!" Pestilence hollers. Blood spills over his bones and palms, and his knees buckle from the unbearable misery. Already, the afflictions begin to lift.

"Maybe just a speck." whispers Cas, an impish smile dancing along his face.

"It doesn't matter," Pestilence declares, settling a dying gaze on Jessica. "It's too late. I win."

Sam draws himself up, his throat constricting with the words. "Jess," he whispers. "Jess. Jess. Jess, babe, you have to answer me."

Nobody says anything as Sam crawls over to the body. Jessica's arms and legs are bent at awkward angles, and her eyes are glazed over, like blue seaglass held up against the sun. It isn't a beautiful sight, and it isn't pretty either, but he would never admit it. Gingerly, he brushes a cool hand over her waves of tangled blonde.

"'m sorry." Sam admits, pressing final kisses onto her forehead, cheeks and chin. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."

He doesn't dare cry, for the sake of all the people watching him. In lieu, Sam simply closes her eyes and stands tall, trembling, before reminding everyone it's time to go.

**A/N: I'm so sorry this is late! I've been very busy with the holidays. THANK YOU to all who've read and reviewed all of my works!**


	14. Things We Begin

"This wasn't supposed to happen." Castiel remarked unceremoniously, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. The pain of the death hurt; not him, but his vessel. The man he was inhabiting-Jimmy Novak-was making him feel this sadness and remorse. He shrugged it off, only to have it be replaced with anger, a madness that made his nostrils flare and fingertips buzz as he whipped around to face the door.

"The angels were supposed to protect her! She was a _prophet!" _He bawled, pointing at her bent body. Dean was staring at him, dumbly, as if he were trapped in a fishbowl.

Sam's eyes lifted in question. "What did you say?"

Castiel ignored him, clearing his throat and rushing forward. "Gabriel! You were tethered to this woman! How could you allow this to happen?"

The fine blond hair on the back of Dean's neck stood on end at the name. It seemed like an instinct to grab the angel blade from the pocket of his jeans and give it a twirl between his fingers. "Gabriel." He said evenly, his voice tapering off at the end as if it were a question.

It was, but it wasn't.

The doubt in his mind was fleeting as Gabriel materialized before them, a flap of wings posing as a harbinger of his entrance. He was on the shorter end of the spectrum, with amber eyes and long hair to match. Dean felt a stab of disgust watching him stride along the length of the room, and fought the urge to carve ugly words into the curve of the angel's spine.

"Life is hard without family, isn't it?" Was the first thing Gabriel said, and to Sam, who stood still in the middle of the room. He nodded slightly in response, gnashing his teeth together as he did it, trying not to cry but trying to _feel_, too.

Gabriel was attempting to teach these people-the Winchesters and their pet-a lesson. They had to learn to live without someone instead of rushing to bring them back to life, like a breed of overly dependent necromancers.

He found human life enticing, but tiring just the same. The girl was virtually useless anyway. She would not have become a prophet for what seemed like an eternity. He refused to let Castiel accuse him of abusing his power as guardian angel; he had been watching, and he had permitted the peril to cross their paths. Only one thing was Gabriel certain of: Castiel had become much too attached to the boys.

"Have you forgotten that we've been living without Daddy, little brother?" He retorted, and Cas bristled as he continued. "If we can do it, they can live without one of their own, too."

Dean's tongue turned into dulled lead in his mouth.

"You obviously don't know how to love someone." Sam spat to everyone's surprise, his eyes glued to the clock just above the archangel's head.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7..._

_"_Let me be frank, Gigantor. Who have you ever had to love? Mother Dear burned to a crisp right above you. Daddy Bear traded himself in at the pawn shop. Dean's died. Everyone has died for you, Sam, but the truth is...who would you die for?"

_"Her!" _Sam screamed. Everything he had ever restrained boiled over.

But he didn't move. He couldn't move. He'd crumble into bits if he did.

Dean had known something like this was coming. His brother had a breaking point, a sort of sensitivity he had vowed to protect ever since he was four years old, and it had all died in front of him. Now.

He let out a soft "Relax, Sam," trying to smooth it over like wet concrete, but Sam's pain, centered around a failure that never really happened, reached a fever pitch.

"I vowed to protect her." Sam uttered, his eyes darkening to a leaden brown. "And I couldn't. But that didn't stop me from trying." He turned an accusatory eye to his brother. "I knew it was all too dangerous, Dean- so _say it! _Say 'I told you so!'"

"Sam, no."

"_Say it!" _Sam demanded, anguish dragging down every word, tears gleaming in those wide hazel eyes where there had once been hope, and wonder.

Gabriel folded his arms as he watched the scene play out before him, eyeing Castiel. "Are they always like this?"

Castiel didn't answer, burying himself deeper in the depths of his trench coat, wanting more than ever to disappear. He had never let himself submit this easily to fear, but the presence of his brother was something all too intimidating.

"You know, you can fix this easily. Why aren't you?" Gabriel inquired, leaning back in his chair. He surveyed the scene with a natural eye, as he'd always done, staring into the glassy blue eyes of the dead girl for a moment or two.

"I...I don't know," he replied, and for once, he really didn't. Jessica was a compatible match for Sam, not to mention a skilled ally, and she had won his heart. Yet he felt like this was something he should instill in them.

Gabriel cast a sly glance at his brother and simpered. "You're their bitch. Yet you're still so loyal to the garrison, aren't you, Castiel? Or should I say, Cas?" He drew out the _so_, raising his eyebrows slightly as he observed the brothers' angsty arguing under the fluorescent lights.

The muscles in Castiel's back tensed. "Only Dean calls me that at this point."

"That Dean is one of the more aesthetic ones. I knew you'd agree." He raised his eyes to Sam. "It's in the Winchester genes."

Castiel's eyes narrowed as he turned to the archangel. "Gabriel, this is nonsense! Just raise the girl from the dead!" They maintained eye contact for several minutes, registering each other's weaknesses and strengths all in a few blinks.

"Alright." Gabriel answered finally, breaking the silence and walking towards Jessica's body. He knelt and pressed a cool hand against her stomach. It was like she had been asleep for a thousand years, and it had been her true love's kiss; she awoke instantly, and looked up at him, dazed and confused all rolled into one.

"Who are you?" Jessica whispered hoarsely, leaning on her elbows for support.

"I'm the asshole that just saved your life." He mused with a wink, and disappeared from sight.

It had happened in a mere moment, and it was one that Sam had missed; he moved forward shakingly, palming her hair and her cheeks, plaguing her with questions and concerns that she dismissed with a kiss to the cheek.

She blinked up at him coolly, familiarly, and he couldn't deny her normalcy. "I'm fine, Sam." She whispered, drawing herself upright. Dean watched from the doorway, his thoughts a little scattered, mouth a slack line.

"For a second, I thought she was truly and honestly gone. Forever." Dean muttered to himself, dropping his hands to his sides. But she wasn't-for which he was grateful, because Sam was happy, and Sammy came first.

In the time he was about to withdraw to the Impala, Castiel sidled up to him, and he laughed for the first time in what seemed like a long time.

"But she's not," The angel finished, and held on to Dean's right hand, his ring hand. It felt entirely foreign, to have another large, warm hand press against his. When it tightened, Dean felt every bone and nerve, and it made something tug at the corners of his lips just a fraction.

Dean let him do it.

**A/N: Thanks for all the support I have gotten on this story! Shoutout to all of my guest reviewers, who, unfortunately, I cannot thank personally! So many things have happened in the past days! I've seen Frozen (beautiful, beautiful story...might have something about that up soon), and I might even have a new fic idea in the next couple of weeks!**

**:)**


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